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A Song of Sixpence (Continued from page 12) then he does it under protest.” He turned to Norton. “How’s the play going, Char lie?” “Oh, so-so. I’ve got the second act done.” “But you had that done last winter.” “Oh, well, I’ve written it over. But I can’t seem to get the third, somehow.” Chanler explained to Emmy. “Mr. Norton is writing a play. ‘The Circle,’ it’s called.” “Good name, don’t you think?” interjected Norton, with a momentary burst of interest, then relapsed into his customary attitude of bantering cynicism. “Guess that’s the reason I can’t finish it. A circle has no end, you know, or beginning, either, for that matter; that must be why my first act never seems to start off right. I just go round and round and round.” He poured out a glass of the thin wine and drank it off. “It must be wonderful to write plays.” Emmy looked at him in admiration. “The wonderful part is getting them pro duced—not writing them,” laughed Chan ler. “Anybody can write a play—it takes a genius to sell one. Eh, Charlie?” Norton looked glum. “Wortheimer has promised to produce ‘The Circle,’ ” he said, “ w r hen it’s done.” “Why shouldn’t he? He’d promise to produce the Bible if you’d dramatize it, which only means he’ll read it when it’s finished, or let the office boy read it; that doesn’t cost him anything.” “No, that’s true. I suppose if I’d ask him to put up any money—” “He’d fall in a faint, of course. Wort heimer only does rotten plays, anyway. You haven’t a turkey trot or a grizzly bear hug in your shoe, have you?” “Not yet. I’m thinking about it, though. I guess I’ll have the heroine do a Russian skirt dance—without the skirt—something like that ought to get the money, the way New York’s going at present. Good Lord! The things they hand out nowadays.” He turned to Emmy. “You see, Miss Moran, I’ve lived in New York all my life, and I’ve I seen it change. Five years ago they’d go right up in the air just at living pictures. To-day—believe me, I’m no saint by a thousand miles, but how they can get away with some of the suggestive stuff they pull on the public beats me. And young girls go and eat it up—as if it were ice cream soda. Of course, you don’t know what I mean,” he said to Emmy, apologetically. “You see, I forget you’re just from the country, so to speak, but it’s in the air in this burg. Don’t you think so, Grant?” Chanler smiled. “It’s you newspaper people w’ho are responsible for it, Charlie,” he said. “You and your sensations. And the modest girl who works for a living—the competent actress who’s decent—you don’t hear anybody making a fuss over her, do you? Virtue seems to be a drug in the market. Any woman can be virtuous. It takes more than that to get the centre of the stage nowadays.” He turned apolo getically to Emmy. “You must pardon my plain talk, Miss Moran, but the subject’s one I’m thinking about a good deal just at present. I’m trying to get some of it into a novel I’m writing. And that reminds me— Mr. Norton tells me that you're looking for a position as a stenographer.” “Yes. I—I can take dictation pretty well —and I’d like to get a start. If you are willing I to try me I’m sure I could give satisfaction.” “ I’m sure of it.” Chanler bent a gravely approving gaze upon her. “ I dictate rather slowly, generally three or four hours in the morning and sometimes in the afternoon as well. The rest of the time you’d spend in writing off your notes on the machine. I’ve been using a public stenographer—she’s very fast and accurate, but I have to pay her by the hour, and I can’t always get her when I want her, and sometimes when I can I don’t feel like working, and, in the end, it costs me more than it would to have some one regularly all the time. I’d be willing to pay twelve a week to the right woman.” He paused, interrogatively. Emmy could not repress an exclamation of pleasure. She had not expected to get over ten. “That would be quite satisfactory,” she said simply. “ I can come at once, if vou ! wish.” “To-morrow. I’ll give you my address.” Ile took a card from his pocket, then paused. 1 “Why shouldn’t we all go ’round to my place after dinner—then you will know just how to get there. You can come, Charlie?” he turned to Norton. “Sure. How’s that Kentucky Bourbon holding out?” (Continued on next page)