“The usual character,” Ray answered, with a listlessness which perhaps passed for careless confidence with the young publisher, and piqued his interest. “It’s a love-story.”
“Of course. Does it end well? A great deal depends upon the ending with the public, you know.”
“I suppose it ends badly. It ends as badly as it can,” said the author, feeling that he had taken the bit in his teeth. “It’s unrelieved tragedy.”
“That isn’t so bad, sometimes,” said Mr. Brandreth. “That is, if the tragedy is intense enough. Sometimes a thing of that kind takes with the public, if the love part is good and strong. Have you the manuscript here in New York with you?”
“I have it here in my lap with me,” said Ray, with a desperate laugh.
Mr. Brandreth cast his eye over the package. “What do you call it? So much depends upon a title with the public.”
“I had thought of several titles: the hero’s name for one; the heroine’s for another. Then I didn’t know but A Modern Romeo would do. It’s very much on the lines of the play.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Brandreth, with a sudden interest that flattered Ray with fresh hopes. “That’s very curious. I once took part in an amateur performance of Romeo myself. We gave it in the open air. The effect was very novel.”
“I should think it might be,” said Ray. He hastened to add, “My story deals, of course, with American life, and the scene is laid in the little village where I grew up.”
“Our play,” said Mr. Brandreth, “was in a little summer place in Massachusetts. One of the ladies gave us her tennis-ground, and we made our exits and our entrances through the surrounding shrubbery. You’ve no idea how beautiful the mediæval dresses looked in the electric light. It was at night.”