half after nine
`` It is kismet , '' he acknowledged . Warrington laid down his pen , brushed his smarting eyes , lighted his pipe , and tilted back his chair . With his hands clasped behind his head , he fell into a waking dream , that familiar pastime of the creative mind . It was half after nine , and he had been writing steadily since seven . The scenario was done ; the villain had lighted his last cigarette , the hero had put his arms protectingly around the heroine , and the irascible rich uncle had been brought to terms . All this , of course , figuratively speaking ; for no one ever knew what the plot of that particular play was , insomuch as Warrington never submitted the scenario to his manager , an act which caused almost a serious rupture between them . But to-night his puppets were moving hither and thither across the stage , pulsing with life ; they were making entrances and exits ; developing this climax and that ; with wit and satire , humor and pathos .