"Several times," said Sperry to Susan as they crossed Long
Acre together on the way to Rector's, "yes, at least half a
dozen times to my knowledge, Constance had had success right
in her hands. And every time she has gone crazy about some
cheap actor or sport and has thrown it away."
"But she'll get on now," said Susan.
"Perhaps," was Sperry's doubting reply. "Of course, she's got
no brains. But it doesn't take brains to act--that is, to act
well enough for cheap machine-made plays like this. And
nowadays playwrights have learned that it's useless to try to
get actors who can act. They try to write parts that are
actor-proof."
"You don't like your play?" said Susan.
"Like it? I love it. Isn't it going to bring me in a pot of
money? But as a play"--Sperry laughed. "I know Spenser
thinks it's great, but--there's only one of us who can write
plays, and that's Brent. It takes a clever man to write a
clever play. But it takes a genius to write a clever play
that'll draw the damn fools who buy theater seats. And Robert
Brent now and then does the trick. How are you getting on
with your ambition for a career?"
Susan glanced nervously at him. The question, coming upon the
heels of talk about Brent, filled her with alarm lest Rod had
broken his promise and had betrayed her confidence. But
Sperry's expression showed that she was probably mistaken.
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