"Have you seen me in 'The Juggler'? Aren't you willing to say I can act now? He never would—" she turned to Graemer. "He always said I couldn't—but, don't you think I do in 'The Juggler'?" she entreated Hamilt.
"It's an actress-proof part, isn't it?" he bantered, watching her lazily.
"Brute!" she pouted.
"Perhaps he is complimenting me," teased Graemer.
"Not at all," promptly answered the rude Mr. Hamilt. "You've all but ruined the play with your everlasting managing. It's a peach up to the last act. Until you chuck that maudlin bunch of slush and scenery at us. Where did you get that play, anyhow?" he asked insolently.
"Why, he wrote it last summer," protested Edwina.
"Yes?" his uplifted eyebrows were insulting as he glanced quizzically at Graemer. "Then he was about twenty-five years younger last summer than he is now. The first two acts of that play—Gad, it got me up till then, but the rest of it—" he broke a bit off a crusty roll and buttered it carefully, "I can readily believe, Mr. Graemer," he added deliberately, "that you did write the rest of the play."
"You have to give the public what it wants," suggested Graemer blandly.
"No, you don't," said Dudley Hamilt. "You have to make the public want what it's going to get—or what it needs."
"Which is exactly what I wanted to see you about," drawled the manager significantly.