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Otie, what is a good phrase for 'I am told'?" Mr Pilkington forced his wandering attention to grapple with the problem. "'I hear'," he suggested at length. "Tchah!" ejaculated his aunt. Then her face brightened. "I have it. Take dictation, please, Miss Frisby.
But then," said Mrs Peagrim in extenuation, "I had only seen the piece when it was done at my house at Newport, and of course it really was rather dreadful nonsense then! I might have known that you would change it a great deal before you put it on in New York. As I always say, plays are not written, they are rewritten! Why, you have improved this piece a hundred per cent, Otie!
I never liked to say so before, but even you must agree with me now that that original version of yours, which was done down at Newport, was the most terrible nonsense! And how hard the company must have worked, too! Otie," cried Mrs Peagrim, aglow with the magic of a brilliant idea, "I will tell you what you must really do.
Now, directly the curtain has fallen, Otie dear, pop right round and find Mr Goble and tell him what you want." It is not only twin-souls in this world who yearn to meet each other. Between Otis Pilkington and Mr Goble there was little in common, yet, at the moment when Otis set out to find Mr Goble, the thing which Mr Goble desired most in the world was an interview with Otis.
"Well, am I refined enough, do you think?" "I shall be only too happy if you will join us," said Mr Pilkington promptly. The long-haired composer looked doubtful. He struck a note up in the treble, then whirled round on his stool. "If you don't mind my mentioning it, Otie, we have twelve girls already." "Then we must have thirteen," said Otis Pilkington firmly. "Unlucky number," argued Mr Trevis.
"We're all proud of you, Otie darling," proceeded Mrs Peagrim. "The piece is a wonderful success. You will make a fortune out of it. And just think, Major Selby, I tried my best to argue the poor, dear boy out of putting it on! I thought it was so rash to risk his money in a theatrical venture.
She had never been overwhelmingly attached to her long nephew, but since his rise to fame something resembling affection had sprung up in her, and his attitude now disturbed her. "You can't be well, Otie!" she said solicitously. "Are you ill?" "I have a severe headache," replied the martyr. "I passed a wakeful night." "Let me go and mix you a dose of the most wonderful mixture," said Mrs.
Miss Frisby, her secretary, an anaemic and negative young woman, waited patiently, pad on knee, and tapped her teeth with her pencil. "Please do not make that tapping noise, Miss Frisby," said the sufferer querulously. "I cannot think. Otie, dear, can't you suggest a good phrase? You ought to be able to, being an author."
"But, Otie darling, I was talking to Mr Mason, when he came down to Newport to see the piece last summer, and he told me that the management nearly always gives a supper to the company, especially if they have had a lot of extra rehearsing to do." "Well, let Goble give them a supper if he wants to."
It struck her from time to time that darling Otie was perhaps a shade unresponsive, but she put this down to the nervous strain inseparable from a first night of a young author's first play. "Why," she concluded, "you will make thousands and thousands of dollars out of this piece. I am sure it is going to be another 'Merry Widow."
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