Naturally, we were as much shocked by this doctrine as Kendall, the hero; but, since Mr. Kelland's story was largely concerned with the young man's eventual decision to make shift without benefit of clergy, we could see no way open for us to act about the reformation of Andrée's character. As a matter of fact, owing to the exigencies of dramatic action, we were compelled to make the affair much more precipitate than in the book. We gave the hero an order to return to the front. We had off-stage bands of soldiers wandering up and down singing "Madelon," in the most heartrending way, and, finally, we introduced an air raid to shut off the Metro so that the heroine should have no available means of transportation to go home even if she desired to leave the apartment of the hero.
It was not enough. A manager read the play and at first seemed favorably inclined. Then he began to think it over and finally he summoned us to a conference.
"Suppose you had been an American officer in France during the war," he said.
"And then suppose after you came home you took your wife, or your mother, or your fiancée, to see this play."
We nodded again and he paused for dramatic effect.
"At the end of the third act when they found that this girl was going to stay all night in the apartment of this American officer, suppose they had turned to you and said, 'Heywood, did you live like that in Paris?' Or, even if they said nothing, but just looked at you accusingly, what would you say to them?"
We suggested, "Isn't it rather stuffy in here? Do you mind if I go out to smoke?" But that did not seem wholly satisfactory, and so our version of The Little Moment of Happiness never reached the stage.
The office force got started on a discussion of what character in fiction each of us would take out to dinner if he had his choice. Most of the men spoke for Becky Sharp, although there were scattering bids here and there for Thaïs. But the night editor, who had put in a long evening of it, said, "My choice would be little Eva."