Warrington laid down his pen, brushed his smarting eyes, lighted his pipe, and tilted back his chair.

With his hands clasped behind his head, he fell into a waking dream, that familiar pastime of the creative mind.

It was half after nine, and he had been writing steadily since seven.

The scenario was done; the villain had lighted his last cigarette, the hero had put his arms protectingly around the heroine, and the irascible rich uncle had been brought to terms.

All this, of course, figuratively speaking; for no one ever knew what the plot of that particular play was, insomuch as Warrington never submitted the scenario to his manager, an act which caused almost a serious rupture between them.