Royleston straightened. "What's the subject?"
"Middle-age Italian intrigue, so Hugh says—bully costumes—a wonder of a part for Merival."
"Then we are on velvet again," said Royleston.
The influence of the news ran through the action on the stage. The performance took on spirit and gusto. The audience immediately felt the glow of the players' enthusiasm, and warmed to both actress and playwright, and the curtain went down to the most vigorous applause of the entire run. But Westervelt did not perceive this, so engrossed was he in the new manuscript. Reading was prodigious labor for him—required all his attention.
He was at the hotel early the next morning, impatient to see his star. As he waited he figured on a little pad. His face was flushed as if with drink. His eyes swam with tears of joy, and when Helen appeared he took her hand in both his fat pads, crying out:
"My dear lady, we have found you a new play. It is to be a big production. It will cost a barrel of money to put it on, but it is a winner. Tell the writer to come on and talk terms."
Helen remained quite cool. "You go too fast, Herr Westervelt. I have not read the piece. I may not like the title rôle."
The manager winced. "You will like it—you must like it. It is a wonderful part. The costuming is magnificent—the scenes superb."
"Is there any text?"
Westervelt did not feel the sarcasm. "Excellent text. It is not Sardou—of course not—but it is of his school, and very well done indeed. The situations are not new, but they are powerfully worked out. I am anxious to secure it. If not for you, for some one else."