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“You can rehearse her forty years and she’ll never play the part.”

“The critics don’t agree with you; they rave over her. If Francis himself–“

Mrs. Phillips uttered an exclamation of anger. “Oh, of course, she is perfect! You wouldn’t give me the part, would you? No. You gave it to her. But it’s mine by rights; I have the personality.”

“I wrote it for her,” said the husband, after a pause. “I can’t see you in it.”

“Naturally,” she sneered. “Well, I can, and it’s not too late to make the change. I’ll replace her. My name will help the piece.”

“Leontine!” he exclaimed, in amazement. “What are you talking about? The play is a tremendous success as it is, and Miss Berwynd is a big hit. I’d be crazy to make a change.”

“You won’t give me the part?”

“Certainly not. You shouldn’t ask it.”

“Doesn’t Leontine Murat mean more to the public than Norma Berwynd?” she demanded.

“Until last night, yes. To-day–well, no. She has created this role. Besides–you–couldn’t play the part.”

“And why not, if you please?”

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Leontine.”

“Go on!” she commanded, in a voice roughened by passion.

“In the first place you’re not–young enough.” The woman quivered. “In the second place, you’ve grown heavy. Then, too, your accent–“

She broke out at him furiously. “So! I’m old and fat and foreign. I’ve lost my beauty. You think so, eh? Well, other men don’t. I’ll show you what men think of me–“

“This is no time for threats,” he interrupted, coldly.

“Bah! I don’t threaten.” Seizing him by the arm, she swung him about, for she was a large woman and still in the fullest vigor of her womanhood. “Listen! You can’t fool me. I know why you wrote this play. I know why you took that girl and made a star of her. I’ve known the truth all along.”

“You have no cause to–“

“Don’t lie!” she stormed at him. “I can read you like a book. But I won’t stand for it.” She flung his arm violently from her and turned away.

“I think you’d better go home,” he told her. “You’ll have the stage hands talking in a minute.”

She laughed disagreeably, ignoring his words. “I watched you write this play! I have eyes, even if Irving Francis is blind. It’s time he knew what is going on.”

“There is nothing going on,” Phillips cried, heatedly; but his wife merely shrugged her splendid shoulders and, opening her gold vanity case, gave her face a deft going over with a tiny powder puff. After a time the man continued: “I could understand your attitude if you–cared for me, but some years ago you took pains to undeceive me on that point.”

Leontine’s lip curled, and she made no answer.

“This play is a fine piece of property; it will bring us a great deal of money; it is the thing for which I have worked years.”

“I am going to tell Francis the truth about you and his wife!” she said.

“But there’s nothing to tell,” the man insisted, with an effort to restrain himself. “Besides, you must know the result if you start a thing like that. He’ll walk out and take his wife with him. That would ruin–“

“Give me her part.”

“I won’t be coerced,” he flared up, angrily. “You are willing to ruin me, out of pique, I suppose, but I won’t permit it. This is the biggest thing I ever did, or ever will do, perhaps; it means honor and recognition, and–you’re selfish enough to spoil it all. I’ve never spoken to Norma Berwynd in any way to which her husband or you could object. Therefore I resent your attitude.”

“My attitude! I’m your wife.”

He took a turn across the stage, followed by her eyes. Pausing before her at length, he said, quietly: “I’ve asked you to go home and now I insist upon it. If you are here when I return I shall dismiss the rehearsal. I refuse to allow our domestic relations to interfere with my business.” He strode out to the front of the house and then paced the dark foyer, striving to master his emotions. A moment later he saw his wife leave the stage and assumed that she had obeyed his admonitions and gone home.