He had lighted another cigarette and was puffing nervously. “Where is it?” he demanded. And when the manuscript was placed in his hands he drew nearer to the light. With smoke curling up into his eyes he began to read aloud. He held his head askew, to escape the smoke.
Baron leaned back, his face in shadow, and curiously studied the intense manner of his companion.
Baggot read: fitfully, speedily, with an occasional aside, which he dropped entirely when he got well into the action of the drama. There was something of impersonation in his manner as he read now one character’s lines and now another’s. He put so much interest into the reading that it seemed almost like acting. And presently Baron began to see vivid pictures. He was carried into a strange, pleasant atmosphere. He was delighted by quaint, unexpected bits of dialogue. He perceived, little by little, the trend of the whimsical philosophy.
He could scarcely believe that this was Baggot’s work. He forgot to take account of time. And when the last act was finished, he found that he had risen to his feet.
“Splendid!” he exclaimed. “Splendid!”
Baggot thrust the manuscript from him and turned to the other with brilliant, triumphant eyes.
“No fault to find with that,” he challenged. In another moment he had left the room, and was hurrying down the stairs and away from the house, too excited to contain himself.
The manuscript remained where it had fallen.
Late the next afternoon Baron returned from a day’s work in the Times office.
He was thinking of Baggot’s play. He meant to read it for himself—to see how much he had been influenced the day before by Baggot’s almost hypnotic enthusiasm.