She stopped, and turned to him.
“Career? Career, did you say, for stupid little me?”
“I never called you stupid,” he protested.
“I should hope not. I’m the smartest child you ever had!” she cried as a period to their discourse.
All day she waited for word from Jarvis and none came. She could have cried with disappointment. Could he have been insane enough to refuse, after he had read the story? Or did he think she was indifferent to his good fortune? She went to bed determined to write him on the morrow.
The morning mail brought a second letter from the Empire Theatre. It contained a line from Mr. Frohman, “He accepts,” and an enclosure. This proved to be a letter from Jarvis:
“To the Author of ‘Francesca,’ care of Mr. Frohman, Empire Theatre, New York.
“My Dear Madam: Mr. Charles Frohman has given me your story ‘Francesca’ to read, with a view to making it into a play. Of course you are familiar with his plans in this respect. He has offered to entrust me with the dramatization, and I have consented to accept, on the condition that both you and he will allow me to use my own discretion in the work, and not hamper me by superimposing your own ideas and desires. When I have finished all I can do with
