t on the subject."

Joseph sprang to the switches.

"Please!" Carlo Trent raised a protesting hand.

The switches were not turned. In the beautiful dimness the greatest
tragic actress in the world and the greatest dramatic poet in the
world gazed at each other, seeking and finding solace in mutual
esteem.

"I suppose it wouldn't do to call it the Euclid Theatre?" Rose
questioned casually, without moving her eyes.

"Splendid!" cried Mr. Marrier from the telephone.

"It all depends whether there are enough mathematical students in
London to fill the theatre for a run," said Edward Henry.

"Oh! D'you think so?" murmured Rose, surprised and vaguely puzzled.

At that instant Edward Henry might have rushed from the room and
taken the night-mail back to the Five Towns, and never any more have
ventured into the perils of London, if Carlo Trent had not turned his
head, and signified by a curt, reluctant laugh that he saw the joke.
For Edward Henry could no longer depend on Mr. Seven Sachs. Mr. Seven
Sachs had to take the greatest pains to keep the muscles of his face
in strict order. The slightest laxity with them--and he would have
been involved in another and more serious suffocation.

"No," said Carlo Trent, "'The Muses' Theatre' is the only possible
title. There is money in the poetical drama." He looked hard at Edward
Henry, as though to stare down the memory of the failure of Nashe's
verse. "I don't want money. I hate the thought of money. But money is
the only proof of democratic appreciation, and that is what I need,
and what every artist needs.... Don't you think there's money in the
poetical drama, Mr. Sachs?"

"Not in America," said Mr. Sachs. "London is a queer place."

"Look at the runs of Stephen Phillips's plays!"

"Yes.... I only reckon to know America."

"Look at what Pilgrim's made out of Shakspere."

"I thought you were talking about poetry," said Edward Henry too
hastily.

"And isn't Shakspere poetry?" Carlo Trent challenged.

"Well, I suppose if you put it in that way, he _is_!" Edward Henry
cautiously admitted, humbled. He was under the disadvantage of never
having either seen or read "Shakspere." His sure instinct had always
warned him against being drawn into "Shakspere."

"And has Miss Euclid ever done anything finer than Constance?"

"I don't know," Edward Henry pleaded.

"Why--Miss Euclid in 'King John'--"

"I never saw 'King John,'" said Edward Henry.

"_Do you mean to say_,