“Ah, Sheila’s happiness!” Roger groaned. “That’s a large order. I suppose she has told you, Mr. Wyndham, that she is an actress—or is trying to be?”
“Oh yes, sir,” Winfield answered, feeling like a butler asking for a position. “I fell in love with her on the stage.”
“Ah, so you are an actor, too.”
“Oh no, sir! I’m a manufacturer, or I expect to be.”
“And is your factory one that can be carried around with you, or does Sheila intend—”
| “Oh, | { I’m } | going to leave the stage.” |
| {she’s} |
“Hum!” said Roger. “When?”
“Right away, I hope,” said Winfield.
“I’m off the stage now,” said Sheila. “I’ll just not go back.”
“I see,” said Roger, while Polly stared from her idolized child to the terrifying stranger, and wrung her hands before the appalling explosion of this dynamite in the quiet evening.