He whisked back into his room as he heard her door open.
They had tea, and he could not take his eyes off her. She thought he looked ill and pulled down. On his desk she saw the pile of his papers.
“You’ve been writing,” she said. “You’ve been overdoing it. It’s never safe to leave a man alone.”
“Yes,” he replied. “I have written a good deal.”
“Is it a story?”
“No. Not exactly a story.”
“Is it finished?”
“No. I doubt if it will ever be finished now.”
She began to talk of the theater. She had been wired for to resume her part, as her understudy was proving unsatisfactory. Further she had had two offers. One to appear in a new musical comedy, the other of a part in a play to be produced at a little “intellectual” theater for eight matinées. She felt inclined, she said, to accept both. It would mean very hard work, but it would be experience, and it was flattering to be noticed by the superior persons of the stage. And she asked his advice. He thought it might be too much for her to have so much rehearsing and to play in the evening as well. That she brushed aside. She was feeling splendid, strong enough to act a whole play.
“You are becoming a regular Copas,” he said.