I admired Miss Andrews myself,
but there were other things I could talk about--"like lemonade and
elephants," as the small boy said. "Let it go at that. It was an
interesting play, and that's all plays ought to be. Realism in plays
is not to be encouraged. A man goes to the theatre to be amused and
entertained, not to be reminded of home discomforts."
Stuart looked at me reproachfully, ordered a fresh cigar, and
suggested turning in for the night. I walked home with him and tried
to get him interested in a farce I was at work on, but it was of no
use. He had become a monomaniac, and his monomania was his
rebellious heroine. Finally I blurted out:
"Well, for Heaven's sake, Stuart, get the woman caged, will you?
For, candidly, I'd like to talk about something else, and until
Marguerite Andrews is disposed of I don't believe you'll be able to."
"I'll have half the work done by this time to-morrow night," said he.
"I've got ten thousand words of it in my mind now."
"I'll bet you there are only two words down in your mind," said I.
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