"I am speaking as the actress to the playwright." She pointed tragically to the door. "Go! Your poor old, lonely mother awaits you."
"There are six in the family; she's my stepmother, and we don't get on smoothly."
"Your father is waiting to congratulate you."
"On the contrary. He thinks actresses and playwrights akin to 'popery.'"
She laughed. "Well, then, go on my account—on your account. You are tired, and so am I—"
"That is why I should remain, to relieve you, to help you. Or, do you mean you're tired of me?"
"I won't say that; but I must not see you. I must not see any one. If I do this big part right, I must rest. I intend to sleep a good part of the time. I have sent for Henry Olquest, and I intend to put the whole of the stage end of this play in his hands. Our ideals are not concerned in this Alessandra, you remember."
His face clouded. "That is true. I wish it were otherwise. But can you get Olquest?"
"Yes; his new play has failed. 'Too good,' Westervelt said."
"Oh, what blasphemy! To think Harry Olquest's plays are rejected, and on such grounds! You are right—as always. I will go."