She regarded him with fixed hostility. "I came down to see your rehearsal. You don't object, I hope?"
"Why should I object?" Phillips turned away with a shrug. "I'm surprised, that's all—after what you said this morning. Isn't your interest in the play a trifle—tardy?"
"No! I've been greatly interested in it all the time. I read it several times in manuscript."
"Indeed! I didn't know that. It won't be much of a rehearsal this morning; I'm merely going to run over the third act with Mr. and Mrs. Francis."
"You can rehearse her forty years and she'll never play the part."
"The critics don't agree with you; they rave over her. If Francis himself—"
Mrs. Phillips uttered an exclamation of anger. "Oh, of course, she is perfect! You wouldn't give me the part, would you? No. You gave it to her. But it's mine by rights; I have the personality."
"I wrote it for her," said the husband, after a pause. "I can't see you in it."
"Naturally," she sneered. "Well, I can, and it's not too late to make the change. I'll replace her. My name will help the piece."
"Léontine!" he exclaimed, in amazement. "What are you talking about? The play is a tremendous success as it is, and Miss Berwynd is a big hit. I'd be crazy to make a change."