"I have had a great disappointment. I read that play of Hargrave's again—there's nothing to it."
"You surprise me."
The fact was that Brockway, Stigler's stage director had torn it to pieces. She continued, repeating what Brockway had said:
"The trouble is, it's not actable. It's like all plays that read well—I should have known it. There's no dramatic action. Then, it has one great fault—all young writers have it—you see, every scene should be a unit in itself, express one dramatic emotion, develop it, and increase it; and Hargrave puts three or four emotions in the same page—five or six," she continued indignantly. "It's all mixed up—topsy-turvy—no actress could make an effect." (This had been its chief merit two days before.) "It's very sad; I shall never find a play."
"You were very enthusiastic a few days ago," he said.
"Was I?" she said resentfully. "You see, the trouble is, in reading you imagine things that aren't there."
"So Hargrave isn't a genius after all?" he asked.
"He is very conceited—insufferably so," she said abruptly. "But you don't understand—it's the disappointment to me—I shall never find a play. Sometimes I feel like giving it all up. It's terrible—breaking your heart day after day. Yes, sometimes I feel like never acting again."
"You are in a blue mood," he said cheerfully.
"Everything has gone wrong," she said, pouting. "Even you have changed!"