"You extraordinary man! What aspect of the stage?"
"I like writing plays. I've written several, but I don't think they're any good and I've never tried to do anything with them. I don't think my people would be real—especially the women. I wonder—I'd like—would you read them some time? You're critical, but you're very kind, too."
"I long to read them! Bring them. The sooner the better. I love plays and I love the theater, and though my criticisms may not be valuable, you shall have them. I often wish Judy had gone on the stage. She has the looks and she has talent, too. But of course it would have killed her parents."
It was then that he took the plunge. She had felt for some time that he was preparing to take it.
"Miss Pendleton," he said, "is the only woman I have ever met who has made me wish I were a rich man—or a successful man. Not that she would consider me if I were."
"I'm beginning to think you're human!" cried Madame Claire. "The stage; and now you're in love with Judy. I'm delighted, Major Crosby! Delighted. Now we have two excellent diversions for you. Plays, and love."
