ful,” said Bambi. “Do you suppose he’d let me make the play?”
“I don’t know. Would you like to? Do you think you could?”
“I do. I’ve learned lots through—” She stopped of a sudden, and gazed at him. “Why, Jarvis must make the play, of course. Why didn’t I think of it?”
“Mr. Frohman would, no doubt, wish to choose the playwright, in case you didn’t make the dramatic version yourself.”
“But why couldn’t Jarvis?”
“Jarvis is totally unknown, you know, and so far unsuccessful in playmaking. You could hardly expect Mr. Frohman to risk a tyro.”
She looked at him indignantly. He rated Jarvis like a Dun’s Agency.
“But I’m a tyro. Yet you think he might let me do it?”
“Excuse me, you are not a tyro. You are the author of one of the season’s most-talked-of books. Your name, in a double rôle, on Mr. Frohman’s three-sheets, will be a fine card.”
“All I know about play writing I learned from Jarvis,” she protested.
