“Thank you, dear,” returned Alison serenely. “Don’t forget.”
She moved back to her chair, humming a little tune almost inaudibly; and in passing lightly brushed his forehead with her hand—the ghost of a caress.
“You may go, Jane,” said she, sitting down to face her lover; and when the maid had shut herself out of the room: “Now, dear, read me our play,” said Alison, composing herself to attention.
Staff took up his manuscript and began to read aloud....
Three hours elapsed before he put aside the fourth act and turned expectantly to Alison.
Elbow on knee and chin in hand, eyes fixed upon his face, she sat as one entranced, unable still to shake off the spell of his invention: more lovely, he thought, in this mood of thoughtfulness even than in her brightest animation.... Then with a little sigh she roused, relaxed her pose, and sat back, faintly smiling.
“Well?” he asked diffidently. “What do you think?”
“It’s splendid,” she said with a soft, warm glow of enthusiasm—“simply splendid. It’s coherent, it hangs together from start to finish; you’ve got little to learn about construction, my dear. And my part is magnificent: never have I had such a chance to show what I can do with comedy. I’m delighted beyond words. But ...” She sighed again, distrait.
“But—?” he repeated anxiously.
“There are one or two minor things,” she said with shadowy regret, “that you will want to change, I think: nothing worth mentioning, nothing important enough to mar the wonderful cleverness of it all.”