"Well, he thinks, you know, that it is only since he's cheapened himself that he has had any hearing."
"Cheapened himself?" she repeated wistfully. "But his first plays failed entirely, so these last ones must be a great deal better if they are such splendid successes."
"Well, I suppose it's hard for us to understand his point of view. We talked about it one night in New York when we were dining with Margaret Oldcastle—she takes the leading part in 'Pretty Fanny,' you know."
"Yes, I know. What is she like?"
A strange, still look came into her face, as though she waited with suspended breath for his answer.
"She's a charmer on the stage. I heard father tell her that she made the play, and I'm not sure that he wasn't right."
"But you saw her off the stage, didn't you?"
"Oh, yes, she asked me to dinner. She didn't look nearly so young, then, and she's not exactly pretty; but, somehow, it didn't seem to matter. She's got genius—you couldn't be with her ten minutes without finding out that. I never saw any one in my life so much alive. When she's in a room, even if she doesn't speak, you can't keep your eyes off her. She's like a bright flame that you can't stop looking at—not even if there are a lot of prettier women there, too."
"Is she dark or fair?"
He stopped to think for a moment.