"How did you d-d-divine that?"
"The expression of a man who has written a play is unmistakable. Well, I am in a charming humour this afternoon. What is the play about? À propos—are you the famous Mr. Samphire's brother?"
Unconsciously Mark winced.
"Yes," he said shortly.
"Tell me about your play."
"I c-c-can't," he said. For a moment he hesitated, feeling the lump rising in his throat; then some emanation from the woman opposite—a sense of sympathy—restored his confidence. His face—so plain when troubled—broke into a smile. "It's like this," he continued: "I hate to give you a synopsis of it. L-l-let me read a scene or two. You can make up your mind in a jiffy whether it pleases you or not; and if it doesn't, I'll go at a nod from you."
"But I never listen to plays. Surely that wretch, Tommy, told you. I talk them over before they're written. I've got someone coming in three-quarters of an hour to talk over an unwritten play. The hundreds which are sent to me to read are always passed on to Alfred Gonzales."
Mark felt his confidence oozing from every pore. In another minute his hostess would be bored. At this ignominious probability his fighting instincts asserted themselves.
"I wrote this play for you," he said slowly. "I can't see another woman in it at all. And somehow,"—he stretched out his lean, finely formed hands with a dramatic gesture—"somehow I seem to have gripped you, elusive though you are. Tommy says you're a good sort. Be good to me—for ten minutes. The play's downstairs in the hall. Let me fetch it. Shall I?"
"Yes—fetch it."