The piece had run through the summer and autumn, and Paul, a favourite with the management, was engaged for the next production.

At rehearsal one day the author put in a couple of lines, of which he was given one to speak.

He now was in very truth an actor.
Jane could no longer taunt him in her naughty moods (invariably followed by bitter repentance) with playing a dumb part like a trained dog.

He had a real part, typewritten and done up in a brown-paper cover, which was handed to him, with lack of humour, by the assistant stage manager.
In view of his own instantaneous success he tried to persuade Jane to go on the stage; but Jane had no artistic ambitions, to say nothing of her disinclination to paint her face.

She preferred the prosaic reality of stenography and typewriting.