"You are fond of the theatre?"
His frown deepened. "Fond? I don't know. There are times when I think I hate it—because I tire of it, I suppose."
For a moment neither of them spoke; and during the silence she cast a thoughtful sidelong glance or two at him as he sat frowning at the horizon of blue water. Then she said: "Mr. Tinker spoke of you as a lawyer."
"I am not. Of course the man knows nothing about me whatever."
"May I be so intrusive as to guess your profession? You are a dramatist?"
"Yes," he said. "Probably you didn't understand my name when he mentioned it—and perhaps it may not mean anything to you, unless you saw most of the New York plays. I am Laurence Ogle."
She repeated the name slowly. "Mr. Laurence Ogle. No. I am sorry."
So was he, for he had hoped that she might have been taken to see "The Pastoral Scene." As she had not, and might possibly remember Tinker's horrible smoking-room interpretation of this masterpiece in the new manner, the author decided not to mention the title. Instead, he offered a generalization.
