'But that will be still worse,' said Pinchas seriously.
Kloot grinned. 'How do you know? You've never seen me act?'
The poet laid his finger beseechingly on his nose. 'You will not spoil my play, you will get me a maidenly Ophelia? I and you are the only two men in New York who understand how to cast a play.'
'You leave it to me,' said Kloot; 'I have a wife of my own.'
'What!' shrieked Pinchas.
'Don't be alarmed—I'll coach her. She's just the age for the part. Mrs. Goldwater might be her mother.'
'But can she make the audience cry?'
'You bet; a regular onion of an Ophelia.'
'But I must see her rehearse, then I can decide.'
'Of course.'