some of the provincial cities said the play was disgustingly immoral and the police ought to stop it. the accusation hurt. was it immoral? a certain clergy man said

the play was a sermon; a certain critic said it was vile. which was true? it is not pleasant to be called vile even though the epithet has been hurled at many of the

noblest.

the bitter discussion it aroused wounded vickery mortally. eldon told him that nothing was better for success than to arouse discussion, and that the final proof of

great art is its ability to make a lot of people ferociously angry.

but vickery would not be cheered up. he said that the bumps were killing him.

“you see, i’m so lean and weak, i’ve got no shock-absorbers. i can’t do anything but cough like a damned he-camille.”

sheila and batterson and even reben begged him to leave the company and go back to town. but he was in a frenzy for perfection. he was relentless with his own lines

and scenes. he denounced them rabidly. he tore out pages of manuscript from the prompt-copy, and sat at the table writing new scenes while the rehearsals went on.

between the acts he wrote new lines. he wrote in a terrible hurry. he was in a terrible hurry.

but he was in a frenzy for perfection. he was relentless with the actors. every word, every silence, was important to him as a link in his chain of gold.

batterson and reben and sheila questioned many of his words, phrases, and even whole scenes. everybody had a more or less respectful criticism, a more or less

brilliant contribution, but vickery had had enough of this piecemeal microscopy.

“a play succeeds or falls by its big idea,” he said, “by its big sweep, and nothing else matters. the greatest play in the world is ‘hamlet,’ and it’s so full of

faults that a whole library has been written about it. but you can’t kill its big points. what difference does it make how the shore-line runs if your ocean is an

ocean? let me alone, i tell you. do my play the best you can, then we’ll soon know if the public wants it.

“you ruined one play for me, mr. reben, but you can’t monkey with this one. i thought of all the objections you’ve made and a hundred others when i was writing it.

i liked it this way then, and i knew as much then as i do now—only i was red-hot at the time, and i’m not going to fool with it in cold blood.”

there were arguments and instances enough against him, and reben and batterson showered him with stories of plays that had been saved from disaster by collaboration.

he answered with stories of plays that had succeeded without it and plays that had crashed in spite of it.

“it’s all a gamble,” he cried. “let’s throw our coin on one number and either make or lose. anyway, my contract says you can’t alter a line without my consent,

and you’ll never get that. it’s my last play, and it’s my own play, and they’ve got to take it or leave it just as i write it.”

they yielded more in deference to his feelings than to his art.

at last the company turned to charge down upon new york. they arrived at three o’clock on a sunday morning.

as sheila and mrs. vining rode through the streets to their hotel they saw on all sides the work of the advertising men. on bill-boards were big “stands” with sheila

’s name in letters as big as herself. on smaller boards her full-length portrait smiled at her from “three sheets.” in the windows were “half-sheets.” even the

garbage-cans proclaimed her name.

fame was a terrifying thing.

sunday was given over to a prolonged dress-rehearsal beginning at noon and lasting till four the next morning. at about three o’clock in the afternoon eugene vickery

in the midst of a wrangle over a scene was overcome with his illness.

a doctor who was brought in haste picked him up and carried him to a taxicab and sped with him to a hospital. the troupe was staggered like a line of infantry in which

the first shell drops. then it closed together and went on.

the next day sheila visited eugene and never found a r?le so hard to play as the character of hope at the bedside of despair.

the nurse would not let her stay long and forbade vickery to talk, but he managed to whisper, brokenly:

“don’t worry about me. don’t think about me. work for yourself and the play. that will be working for me. if it succeeds, it’s a kind of a little immortality for

me; if it fails—well, don’t worry, i won’t mind—then. go and rest now. i’ve no strength to give you, or i’d make you as strong as a giant—you poor, brave,

beautiful little woman! god bless you! good luck!”