"
"That's it! That's it! Now I want him to drive his part home--with
himself!"
Camden looked across at the vivid young face that a brief but brilliant
career had not ruined.
"I begin to understand," he muttered.
"Do you, Camden? Well, I'm only beginning to understand myself!"
"Together, you'll be corking!" Camden suddenly grew enthusiastic.
"Won't we? And he did so hate to have me slimy. No one but Timmy and my
mother ever cared!"
"We'll have this--this fellow who wrote the play--what's his name?"
"Truedale." The woman referred to the manuscript.
"Yes. Truedale. We'll have him to dinner to-morrow. I'll get Harrington
and Nichols. Where shall we go?"
"There's a love of a place over on the East Side. They give you such
good things to eat--and leave you alone."
"We'll go there!"
It was November before the rush and hurry of preparation were over and
Truedale's play announced. His name did not appear on it so his people
were not nerve-torn and desperate. Truedale often was, but he managed to
hide the worst and suffer in silence. He had outlived the anguish of
seeing his offspring amputated, ripped open, and stuffed. He had come to
the point where he could hear his sacredest expressions denounced as rot
and supplanted by others that made him mentally ill. But in the end he
acknowledged, nerve-racked as he was, that the thing of which he had
dreamed--the thing he had tried to do--remained intact.
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