He went on about it finely, and Louise's heart swelled with pride. She wished Maxwell could have been there, but if he had been, of course Mr. Ray would not have spoken so freely.
The hostess asked him where he had seen it, and he said in Midland.
Then she said, "We must all go," and she had the effect of rising to do so, but it was only to leave the men to their tobacco.
Louise laid hold of her in the drawing-room: "Who is he? What is he?"
"A little dear, isn't he?"
"Yes, of course. But what has he done?"
"Why, he wrote a novel—I forget the name, but I have it somewhere. It made a great sensation. But surely you must know what it was?"
"No, no," Louise lamented. "I am ashamed to say I don't."
When the men joined the ladies, she lingered long enough to thank Mr. Ray, and try to make him tell her the name of his novel. She at least made him promise to let them know the next time he was in New York, and she believed all he said of his regret that he was going home that night. He sent many sweet messages to Maxwell, whom he wanted to talk with about his play, and tell him all he had thought about it. He felt sure that some manager would take it and bring it out in New York, and again he exulted that it was out of the actor's hands. A manager might not have an artistic interest in it; an actor could only have a personal interest in it.