"My dear lady," he went on, "I have to be frank with you--and being frank, especially in regard to an absent husband, is neither easy nor agreeable. Perhaps I had better give you the sugar on the pill first; and that is I have outlined a play that I should like to write with the idea of Mr. Adair creating the central figure. If I could write it with him in mind, I am presumptuous enough to think I could make a big thing of it.--He could do it, of course--do it magnificently. This talk does not turn on his talent, his ability, which is immense. No, no, these are not compliments. Years ago when I was a nobody on the Advertiser, doing theatrical criticism with a recklessness and off-handedness that now makes my gooseflesh quiver to look back on--just a know-it-all young ass--I remember the profound impression Mr. Adair's work used to make upon me. I have often seen him since, going out of my way to do so--one has had to, you know--and that original conviction of his power has steadily grown with me."
He stopped, giving her that curious look of his, so grave, and yet with what might be called a smile in suspension.
It swiftly lit up his face as Phyllis remarked: "Now for the pill?"
"Yes, the pill," faltered Rolls Reece, gripping the arms of his chair, and appearing acutely uncomfortable. "Ahem, the pill is--I suppose it isn't grammatical to say are--well, in fact, some of Mr. Adair's characteristics that those who admire him most, must deprecate and deplore--characteristics that have unhappily hampered, or rather so far have ruined his career. Please, please, Mrs. Adair, do not stop me! This is not a question of personalities at all. Regard me simply as a contractor, looking for a first-class workman--Bill, we'll call him; and it having reached me in a round-about way that Bill has married and pulled up, I've dropped in on Mrs. Bill to make sure."
"Are you not afraid Mrs. Bill may be prejudiced in her husband's favor?"
"My dear lady, it is remarkable to find any one prejudiced in Bill's favor! That it should be his wife is all the better."
"Better for what?"
"I've told you I want to write that play for him."
At this Phyllis' rising ill-will died away. There was too much of the little Frenchwoman in her for her not to become diplomatic and cool when her husband's interests were at stake. Instead of making a hot rejoinder, she replied, with a frankness not at all easy under the circumstances: "I understand perfectly what you mean, Mr. Reece. It is true he has spoiled everything, and has an awful lot to live down. I ought to be grateful to you as the first person--the first important person--who has realized that he has changed. But how am I to convince you of it?"
"By speaking just as you do."