He was unable to sit,
and began to pace up and down, shampooing himself with both
hands.
"I've racked my brains every step of the way here," he groaned.
"All I could think of was that possibly I've unconsciously
paralleled some other play that I never saw. Maybe someone's
told him about a plot like mine. Such things must happen--they
do happen, of course--because all plots are old. But I can't
believe my treatment of it could be so like--"
"I don't think it's that," said Tinker. "It's never anything you
expect--with him."
"Well, what else can it be?" the playwright demanded. "I haven't
done anything to offend him. What have I done that he should--"
"You'd better sit down," the manager advised him. "Going plumb
crazy never helped anything yet that I know of."
"But, good heavens! How can I--"
"Sh!" whispered Tinker.
A tragic figure made its appearance upon the threshold of the
inner doorway: Potter, his face set with epic woe, gloom burning
in his eyes like the green fire in a tripod at a funeral of
state. His plastic hair hung damp and irregular over his white
brow--a wreath upon a tombstone in the rain--and his garment,
from throat to ankle, was a dressing-gown of dead black,
embroidered in purple; soiled, magnificent, awful.
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