The red head of the little telephone-miss bowed over the switch-board when Morning entered Markheim’s. She colored, smiled; all metropolitan outrages of service forgotten. Charley waved furtively from afar; the door to the inner office opened.
“Well?” said the manager.
“Well, Mr. Markheim?”
“You have come too soon.”
“I said—five days.”
“We read no play in five days.”
“It was left here on that basis.”
“Nonsense.”
“You can give it to me now.”
“It is being read now. Your title is rotten. The old one was better.”