herself!' said Goldwater. 'A
decent Jewish housewife cannot appear in breeches.'

'That is what makes it impossible,' assented Pinchas. 'And there is no
other part worthy of Mrs. Goldwater.'

[Illustration: "You compare my wife to a Kangaroo!"]

'It may be she would sacrifice herself,' said the manager musingly.

'And who am I that I should ask her to sacrifice herself?' replied the
poet modestly.

'Fanny won't sacrifice Ophelia,' Kloot observed drily to his chief.

'You hear?' said Goldwater, as quick as lightning. 'My wife will not
sacrifice Ophelia by leaving her to a minor player. She thinks only of
the play. It is very noble of her.'

'But she has worked so hard,' pleaded the poet desperately, 'she needs
a rest.'

'My wife never spares herself.'

Pinchas lost his head. 'But she might spare Ophelia,' he groaned.

'What do you mean?' cried Goldwater gruffly. 'My wife will honour you
by playing Ophelia. That is ended.' He waved the make-up brush in his
hand.

'No, it is not ended,' said Pinchas desperately. 'Your wife is a comic
actress----'

'You just admitted she was tragic----'

'It is heartbreaking to see her in tragedy,' said Pinchas, burning his
boats. 'She skips and jumps. Rather would I give Ophelia to one of
your kangaroos!'

'You low-down monkey!' Goldwater almost flung his brush into the
poet's face. 'You compare my wife to a kangaroo! Take your filthy
manuscript and begone where the pepper grows.'

'Well, Fanny _would_ be rather funny as Ophelia,' put in Kloot
pacifyingly.

'And to make your wife ridiculous as Ophelia,' added Pinchas eagerly,
'you would rob the world of your Hamlet!'

'I can get plenty of Hamlets. Any scribbler can translate
Shakespeare.'

'Perhaps, but who can surpass Shakespeare? Who can make him
intelligible to the modern soul?'

'Mr. Goldwater,' cried the call-boy, with the patness of a reply.

The irate manager bustled out, not sorry to escape with his dignity
and so cheap a masterpiece. Kloot was left, with swinging legs,
dominating the situation. In idle curiosity and with the simplicity of
perfectly bad manners, he took up the poet's papers and letters and
perused them. As there were scraps of verse amid the mass, Pinchas let
him read on unrebuked.

'You will talk to him, Kloot,' he pleaded at last. 'You will save
Ophelia?'

The big-nosed youth looked up from his impertinent inquisition. 'Rely
on me, if I have to play her myself.'

'But that will