his gesture seemed, somehow, to include himself — ”if you only knew it.”

“You talk,” snapped Harrietta, “as the Rev. H. John Scoville used to.” She had never said a thing like that before. “I’m sick of what they call being true to my art. I’m tired of having last year’s suit relined, even if it is smart enough to be good this year. I’m sick of having the critics call me an intelligent comedienne who is unfortunate in her choice of plays. Some day” — a little flash of fright was there — ”I’ll pick up the Times and see myself referred to as ‘that sterling actress.’ Then I’ll know I’m through.”

“You!”

“Tell me I’m