me last year in The Clever Lady Hartletop?" she exclaimed.
Copplestone put the tips of his fingers together and his head on one side and regarded her critically.
"What part did you play?" he asked innocently.
"Part? Why, the part, of course!" she retorted. "Goodness! Why, I created it! And played it to crowded houses for nearly two hundred nights, too!"
"Ah!" said Copplestone. "But I'll make a confession to you. I rarely visit the theatre. I never saw Lady Hartletop. I haven't been in a theatre of any sort for two years. So you must forgive me. I congratulate you on your success."
Addie received this tribute with a mollified smile, which changed to a glance of surprised curiosity.
"You never go to the theatre?—and yet you write plays!" she exclaimed. "That's queer, isn't it? But I believe writing people are queer—they look it, anyhow. All the same, you don't look like a writer—what does he look like, Mrs. Wooler? Oh, I know—a sort of nice little officer boy, just washed and tidied up!"
The landlady, who had evidently enjoyed this passage at arms, laughed as she gave Copplestone a significant glance.
"And when did you come down home, Addie?" she asked quietly. "I didn't know you were here again."
"Came down Saturday night," said Addie. "I'm on my way to Edinburgh—business there on Wednes-
