Honestly, they had everything in 'em but the Battle of Gettysburg, and really they were fearful—about as new and exciting as a beef stew, which is just what I told him, being a truthful girl.
Guy sighs and looks desperate.
"Gladys," he says, "I simply must have a play ready to open the Thalia in less than eight weeks! You know that my interest in playwriting is anything but mercenary—good heavens, I have more money than I know what to do with. What I want is to see my name on another Broadway success, and I'm absolutely barren of ideas! I've simply struck a dry spell, such as all writers do, occasionally. At this moment I'd give twenty-five thousand dollars for an original plot!"
I drew a deep breath and stared at him.
"Don't kid about that kind of money, Guy," I says solemnly. "And—don't tempt me!"
"I never was more serious in my life!" he quickly assures me. "Why, have you an idea? By Jove, Gladys, if you have—if you are the goddess from the machine"
"Be of good cheer," I interrupt. "I'll go home and sleep over matters, which is what you better do, too—you look like you fell out of a well or something, really! I'll see you tomorrow. I don't think I'll have a plot for you by then, but"
