"Here's some rot that a fellow managed to drop on me to-day. I didn't
mean to undo it, but if it has an out-of-door setting, I'll give it a
glance!"
"Has it?" asked the angel, watching the perspiring face of Camden.
"It has! Big open. Hills--expensive open."
"Is it rot?"
"Umph--listen to this!" Camden's sharp eye lighted on a vivid sentence
or two. "Not the usual type of villain--and the girl is rather unique.
Up to tricks with her eyes shut. I wonder how she'll pan out?" Camden
turned the pages rapidly, overlooking some of Con's best work, but
getting what he, himself, was after.
"By Jove! she doesn't do it!"
"What--push those matches this way--what doesn't she do?" asked the
angel.
"Eternally damn the man and claim her sex privilege of unwarranted
righteousness!"
"Does she damn herself--like an idiot?" The angel was interested.
"She does not! She plays her own little role by the music of the
experience she lived through. It's not bad, by the lord Harry! It's got
to be tinkered--and painted up--but it's original. Just look it over."
Truedale's play was pushed across the table and the angel-woman seized
upon it. The taste Camden had given her--like caviar--sharpened her
appetite. She read on in the swift, skipping fashion that would have
crushed an author's hopes, but which grasped the high lights and caught
the deep tones.
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