“But you must have considered it, for a time.”

“Not very profoundly.  I don’t want to marry a newspaper.  Particularly such a newspaper as The Patriot.  For that matter, I don’t want to marry anybody, and I won’t!”

“That being disposed of, what’s the matter with The Patriot?  It’s been treating you with distinguished courtesy ever since Marrineal took over charge.”

“It has.  That’s part of his newspaperishness.”

“From our review of your new play I judge that it was written by the shade of Shakespeare in collaboration with the ghost of Moliere, and that your acting in it combines all the genius of Rachel, Kean, Booth, Mrs. Siddons, and the Divine Sarah.”

“This is no laughing matter,” she protested.  “Have you seen the play?”

“No.  I’ll go to-night.”

“Don’t.  It’s rotten.”

“Heavens!” he cried in mock dismay.  “What does this mean?  Our most brilliant young—­”

“And I’m as bad as the play—­almost.  The part doesn’t fit me.  It’s a fool part.”

“Are you quarreling with The Patriot because it has tempered justice with mercy in your case?”

“Mercy?  With slush.  Slathering slush.”

“Come to my aid, Memory!  Was it not a certain Miss Raleigh who aforetime denounced the ruffian Gurney for that he vented his wit upon a play in which she appeared.  And now, because—­”

“Yes; it was.  I’ve no use for the smart-aleck school of criticism.  But, at least, what Gurney wrote was his own.  And Haslett, even if he is an old grouch, was honest.  You couldn’t buy their opinions over the counter.”

Banneker frowned.  “I think you’d better explain, Betty.”

“Do you know Gene Zucker?”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s a worm.  A fat, wiggly, soft worm from Boston.  But he’s got an idea.”

“And that is?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment.”  She leaned forward fixing him with the honest clarity of her eyes.  “Ban, if I tell you that I’m really devoted to my art, that I believe in it as—­as a mission, that the theater is as big a thing to me as The Patriot is to you, you won’t think me an affected little prig, will you?”

“Of course not, Betty.  I know you.”

“Yes.  I think you do.  But you don’t know your own paper.  Zucker’s big idea, which he sold to Tertius Marrineal together with his precious self, is that the dramatic critic should be the same identical person as the assistant advertising manager in charge of theater advertising, and that Zucker should be both.”

“Hell!” snapped Banneker.  “I beg your pardon, Betty.”

“Don’t.  I quite agree with you.  Isn’t it complete and perfect?  Zucker gets his percentage of the advertising revenue which he brings in from the theaters.  Therefore, will he be kind to those attractions which advertise liberally?  And less kind to those which fail to appreciate The Patriot as a medium?  I know that he will!  Pay your dollar and get your puff.  Dramatic criticism strictly up to date.”