sales? That's what we do. We ridicule and warn and criticize, but
we never build up. The theatrical business is the only one that
permits outside interference--as if the public couldn't tell a
good play from a poor one. It wouldn't be so bad if we were always
honest; but we're not: we have to be smart to hold our jobs. We're
like a patent dandruff cure--we don't cure, but we sting, and the
public thinks we're beneficial."

Notwithstanding his garrulity, Pope was noticeably ill at ease. He
was conscious of Miss Demorest's hostile eyes, and the pointed
manner in which she ignored his presence was disquieting. He had
the feeling that she was carefully measuring him and preparing
herself to take revenge in some characteristic feminine manner.
Knowing extremely little of women, he could not imagine what form
that revenge would assume, and the uncertainty annoyed him. The
dinner seemed slow in coming, conversation dragged, and, rising,
he began to wander nervously about, canvassing his mind for some
excuse to leave. Bob appeared to enjoy his lack of repose, and
offered no relief. At last Pope turned to the piano and fluttered
through the stack of sheet-music he found there.

"Do you play?" inquired Bob.

"Yes. Why?"

"You look as if you did--you're kind of--badly nourished. Know any
rag-time?"

Pope shuddered. "I do not."