more hateful to them than death itself. “But ladies, that won’t do at all,” shouts the producer beside himself. “Once more now from the beginning. Let us have a better tempo, please! And don’t forget, you are supposed to stand near the door! Once more then: Enter Katie!” Katie enters with the droop of a dying consumptive, and stands stock still. “Well, Miss, proceed!” urges the producer. Katie whispers something, her eyes fastened upon the Unknown. “But, you are supposed to cross over to the window,” rages the producer. “Once more now, from the beginning again.” Katie bursts into tears, and runs from the stage. “What’s the matter with her?” asks the dramatist. The producer merely shrugs his shoulders, and hisses like molten iron plunged into ice-cold water. Meanwhile the dramatist pulls himself together, and hurries to the office, declaring that it is impossible to have the first night so soon, that it must be postponed, etc., etc. (Every dramatist feels like this on the day before the first night.) When
D
