I started something.
"None!" he says, banging the table with his fist. "And I or any other unknown playwright never will have his work produced while conditions in the theatrical business remain as they are. Genius is strangled, sacrificed to the god of the box office! Originality is penalized and becomes a serious handicap—art is symbolized by the lady on the face of the dollar!"
"In other words, it's all wrong," I says, feeling I should say something.
"Exactly," says Mr. Tower. "How quick you are to grasp one's meaning and how wonderfully sympathetic!"
"It's a gift!" I says demurely. "Like being able to wiggle your ears or play the oboe."
"By Jove, that's clever!" says Mr. Tower. "I shall put that in my next story. Have I your permission?"
"Go right ahead," I says. "Don't hesitate to call on me at any time. So you write stories, too? I suppose you're what they call ambidextrous, aren't you?"
Mr. Tower throws back his head and laughs like a kid.
"Now you're joshing me!" he says, wagging a reproachful finger at me. "Write stories? My dear girl, under various nom de plumes I have submitted verse, essays, short and long stories, jokes, epigrams, plays and what not to producers and publishers, but
