CHAPTER XVII

MR. FOSS MAKES A SUGGESTION IMMERSED in her beloved script, Adele Leamington sat on her bed, a box of _marron glacé_ by her side, her knees tucked up, and a prodigious frown on her forehead. Try as hard as she would, she found it impossible to concentrate upon the intricate directions with which Foss invariably tortured the pages of his scenarios. Ordinarily she could have mastered this handicap, but, for some reason or other, individual thoughts which belonged wholly to her and had no association with her art came…