The intruder spoke meekly. “It’s Mr. Reben.”
Pennock repeated, “We-ell?”
Reben shifted to his other foot and pleaded, “May I speak to Miss Kemble a moment?”
Pennock closed the door. Later Sheila opened it a little and peered through, clutching together a light wrapper she had slipped into.
“Oh, hello!” she cried. “I’m sorry I can’t ask you in. I’ve got a quick change, you know.”
Even the manager must yield to such conditions and Reben spoke around the casement. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, “that since you are so unhappy in this company you’d better have one of your own.”
“For Heaven’s sake!” Sheila gasped at this unexpected bouquet.
Reben went on: “Since we had such bad success with the masterpiece of the foremost English dramatist, perhaps you might have good luck by going to the other extreme. I’ve found the youngest playwright in captivity. Nowadays these kindergarten college boys write a lot of successes. Joking aside, the boy has a manuscript I’d like you to look over. There is a germ of something in it, I think. Will you just say Hello to him, please?”
Sheila consented with eagerness. Reben beckoned forward a long effigy of youthful terror.
“Miss Kemble, let me present Mr. Eugene Vickery.”