"You won't get pay for rehearsals; and they'll last three weeks; after we open it will be another week before the ghost walks. That's—say—six weeks you've got to scrape through somehow. Eighteen dollars won't cover that. Perhaps you'd better go back to your old job until we start."
"I was fired from the last, and it would take more than two weeks for me to find anything like it, I know."
"And there you are!"
Matthias tossed the manuscript back to the table, waved his hands eloquently and threw himself into a chair, regarding her with his whimsical, semi-apologetic smile.
"I'm afraid," he added after a minute, "I've reached the end of my string. Further suggestions will have to come from you."
"I don't know," said the girl doubtfully. "Maybe I can think of something—maybe something will turn up."
"I hope so. Perhaps even I may invent something. If I do, I'll let you know, Miss Thursday."
He arose, his manner an invitation to go, to which she couldn't be blind.
She got up, moved slowly toward the door.
"I hope I haven't bothered you much—put you out of your writing—"