Half a Rogue | Page 2

is due the
amateur dramatist--because it looks simple. A play is not written; it is
built, like a house. In most cases the dramatist is simply the architect.
The novelist has comparatively an easy road to travel. The dramatist is
beset from all sides, now the business manager--that is to say, the
box-office--now the stage manager, now the star, now the leading man
or woman. Jealousy's green eyes peer from behind every scene. The
dramatist's ideal, when finally presented to the public, resembles those
mutilated marbles that decorate the museums of Rome and Naples.
Only there is this difference: the public can easily imagine what the
sculptor was about, but seldom the dramatist.
Warrington was a young man, tolerably good-looking, noticeably well
set up. When they have good features, a cleft chin and a generous nose,
clean-shaven men are good to look at. He had fine eyes, in the corners
of which always lurked mirth and mischief; for he possessed above all
things an inexhaustible fund of dry humor. His lines seldom provoked
rough laughter; rather, silent chuckles.
Warrington's scowl abated none. In business, women were generally
nuisances; they were always taking impossible stands. He would find
some way out; he was determined not to submit to the imperious
fancies of an actress, however famous she might be.
"Sir, will you aid a lady in distress?" The voice was tremulous, but as
rich in tone as the diapason of an organ.
Warrington looked up from his cigar to behold a handsome young
woman standing at the side of his table. Her round, smooth cheeks were
flushed, and on the lower lids of her splendid dark eyes tears of shame
trembled and threatened to fall. Behind her stood a waiter, of impassive
countenance, who was adding up the figures on a check, his movement
full of suggestion.

The dramatist understood the situation at once. The young lady had
ordered dinner, and, having eaten it, found that she could not pay for it.
It was, to say the least, a trite situation. But what can a man do when a
pretty woman approaches him and pleads for assistance? So
Warrington rose.
"What may the trouble be?" he asked coldly, for all that he instantly
recognized her to be a person of breeding and refinement.
"I--I have lost my purse, and I have no money to pay the waiter." She
made this confession bravely and frankly.
He looked about. They were alone. She interpreted his glance rather
shrewdly.
"There were no women to appeal to. The waiter refused to accept my
word, and I really can't blame him. I had not even the money to send a
messenger home."
One of the trembling tears escaped and rolled down the blooming cheek.
Warrington surrendered. He saw that this was an exceptional case. The
girl was truly in distress. He knew his New York thoroughly; a man or
woman without funds is treated with the finished cruelty with which
the jovial Romans amused themselves with the Christians. Lack of
money in one person creates incredulity in another. A penniless person
is invariably a liar and a thief. Only one sort of person is pitied in New
York: the person who has more money than she or he can possibly
spend.
The girl fumbled in her hand-bag and produced a card, which she gave
to Warrington--"Katherine Challoner." He looked from the card to the
girl and then back to the card. Somehow, the name was not wholly
unfamiliar, but at that moment he could not place it.
"Waiter, let me see the check," he said. It amounted to two dollars and
ten cents. Warrington smiled. "Scarcely large enough to cause all this
trouble," he added reassuringly. "I will attend to it."

The waiter bowed and withdrew. So long as the check was paid he did
not care who paid it.
"Oh, it is so horribly embarrassing! What must you think of me?" She
twisted her gloves with a nervous strength which threatened to rend
them.
"May I give you a bit of friendly advice?" he asked.
She nodded, hiding the fall of the second tear.
"Well, never dine alone in public; at any rate, in the evening. It is not
wise for a woman to do so. She subjects herself to any number of
embarrassments."
She did not reply, and for a moment he believed that she was about to
break down completely. He aimlessly brushed the cigar ashes from the
tablecloth. He hated a scene in public. In the theater it was different; it
was a part of the petty round of business to have the leading lady burst
into tears when things didn't suit her. What fools women are in general!
But the girl surprised him by holding up determinedly, and sinking her
white teeth into