“Go ahead. I wish I could think where I had heard that fellow’s name.”
“He submitted a play to you, called ‘Success.’”
“What—the cab-driver? You mean to say you’re married to the cab-driver?”
“Cab-driver?”
“The ‘Success’ fellow came in here, in a long coat and a top hat. Said he was driving a hansom to help a friend and incidentally turn a penny himself. Big, handsome, blond fellow. I remember, I liked him.”
Surprise, pain, then understanding, flashed across her face, and somehow the manager knew that he had betrayed a secret to her and that it hurt. She controlled herself quickly, and answered him.
“Yes, that was Jarvis. We were married last spring, and we both set out on a career. I kept mine a secret, and just by luck I succeeded. But Jarvis”—here her eyes filled with tears—“you’ve no idea how hard it is to be a playwright! Everybody thinks what a snap it is to collect royalties when you are a Broadway favourite, but they don’t know all those terrible days and nights before you get there, and what it means if you never do get there.”
“I know,” he nodded. “So you want to give this fellow the chance to make this play?”
