“Don’t tell me how bad I look. I know it. But I don’t care. I’ve finished my play! Incidentally my play has finished me. But what does that matter? I put into it all there was of me. That’s what I’m here for. That’s why there’s nothing much left. But I’m glad. I’ve done all I can. J’ai fait mon possible. It’s glorious to do that. And it’s a good play. It’s a great play—though I do say it that shouldn’t. Floyd, I’ve got it!” He turned back to Bret. “Poor Floyd here has heard me read it a dozen times, and he’s suggested a thousand changes. I was in the vein this morning. I worked all day yesterday, and all night till sunrise. Then I was up at seven. When you called me I was writing like a madman. And when the lunch hour came I was going so fast I didn’t dare stop then even to telephone. I apologize.”
“Please don’t,” said Bret.
“I see you’ve had your luncheon. Will you have another with me? I’m famished.”
He rang for a waiter and ordered a substantial meal and then returned to Bret.
“How’s Sheila?”
“She—she’s not well.”
“What a shame! She ought to be at work and I wish to the Lord she were. I may as well tell you, Bret, that I took the liberty of imagining Sheila as the principal woman of my play. And now that it’s finished, I can’t think of anybody who fills the bill except your wife. There are thousands of actresses starving to death, but none of them suits my character. None of them could play it but your Sheila.”
“Then for God’s sake let her play it!” Bret groaned. Vickery, astonished beyond surprise, mumbled, “What did you say?”
Bret repeated his prayer, explained the situation to the incredulous Vickery, apologized for himself and his plight. Vickery’s joy came slowly with belief. The red glow that spotted his cheeks spread all over his face like a creeping fire.
When he understood, he murmured: “Bret, you’re a better man than I thought you were. Whether or not you’ve saved Sheila’s life, you’ve certainly saved mine.” A torment of coughing broke down his boast, and he amended, “Artistically, I mean. You’ve saved my play, and that’s all that counts. The one sorrow of mine was that when I had finished it there was no one to give it life. But what if Sheila doesn’t like it? What if she refuses!”