ife! But no--there it lay,
coffined, the gray of death upon its features. Her heart ached.

After the play Fitzalan took the authors and the leading lady,
Constance Francklyn, and Miss Lenox to supper in a private
room at Rector's. This was Miss Francklyn's first trial in a
leading part. She had small ability as an actress, having
never risen beyond the primer stage of mere posing and
declamation in which so many players are halted by their
vanity--the universal human vanity that is content with small
triumphs, or with purely imaginary triumphs. But she had a
notable figure of the lank, serpentine kind and a bad, sensual
face that harmonized with it. Especially in artificial light
she had an uncanny allure of the elemental, the wild animal in
the jungle. With every disposition and effort to use her
physical charms to further herself she would not have been
still struggling at twenty-eight, had she had so much as a
thimbleful of intelligence.

"Several times," said Sperry to Susan as they crossed Long
Acre together on the way to Rector's, "yes, at least half a
dozen times to my knowledge, Constance had had success right
in her hands. And every time she has gone crazy about some
cheap actor or sport and has thrown it away."

"But she'll get on now," said Susan.

"Perhaps," was Sperry's doubting reply. "Of course, she's got
no brains. But it doesn't take brains to act--that is, to act
well enough for cheap machine-made plays like this. And
nowadays playwrights have learned that it's useless to try to
get actors who can act. They try to write parts that are
actor-proof."

"You don't like your play?" said Susan.

"Like it? I love it. Isn't it going to bring me in a pot of
money? But as a play"--Sperry laughed. "I know Spenser
thinks it's great, but--there's only one of us who can write
plays, and that's Brent. It takes a clever man to write a
clever play. But it takes a genius to write a clever play
that'll draw the damn fools who buy theater seats. And Robert
Brent now and then does the trick. How are you getting on
with your ambition for a career?"

Susan glanced nervously at him. The question, coming upon the
heels of talk about Brent, filled her with alarm lest Rod had
broken his promise and had betrayed her confidence. But
Sperry's expression showed that she was probably mistaken.

"My ambition?" said she. "Oh--I've given it up."

"The thought of work was too much for you--eh?"

S