“You are a wonder!” he exclaimed. “I never could have thought of it.”
“I should say you wouldn’t. You’d have been sitting there yet.”
“Did you tell him about the play?”
“In three minutes? I should say not! I had to cram my words in, like loading a rapid-fire gun. Pouf! Pouf! And out!”
“Did he seem intelligent?”
“Yes, rather. I have decided to see managers after this, Jarvis. It will be Jocelyn & Co. You do the work and I’ll sell it. It’s fun.”
“It’s wonderful how the gods look after me,” he said.
“Gods nothing! It’s wonderful how I look after you. You can burn incense to me.”
The play came back shortly, with a brief note from Claghorn. It had some good points, but it was too serious. Not dramatic enough. The third act was weak.
“All the silly asses want me to make them laugh,” raged Jarvis.
“I am disappointed in my new friend, but the letter to Belasco is here now, so we’ll have a talk with him. Will you go, or shall I?”
“I think I’d like to talk with him, and tell him my views,” Jarvis said.
They sent in the letter, with a request for an interview. In the course of a few days a reply came saying that Mr. Belasco had gone West to see a new production, but if Mr. Jocelyn would send his play to the office it would receive the earliest possible attention. It was a blow to their hopes, but there was nothing else to do, so they dispatched it by messenger.
“I think, maybe, we had better plan to go back home to-morrow, and wait the decision there. The money is vanishing, and I am getting anxious about the Professor. He forgets to write anything of importance.”
“All right. I’ll be glad to go back.”
“Let’s go shop this afternoon, and take the morning train to-morrow.”
“Good. Suits me.”
“What shall I take the Professor? I’ve thought and thought. He’s so hard to shop for.”
“Get him an adding machine!”
Bambi withered him.
“He would disinherit me on the spot. That’s like sending Paderewski a pianola.”
“We must get something for Ardelia, too.”
“I got her a red dress, a red hat, a salmon-pink waist, and handkerchiefs with a coloured border.”
Once their thoughts turned toward the little house, and the arithmetical garden, they were anxious to get back. Their shopping tour was a gay affair, because it was their last outing.
“Don’t you feel differently about New York?” she asked him as they walked back. “It seems to me like a fascinating new friend I have made. I am sorry to leave it.”
“I’m not. I’m not made for cities. People interest me for a while, then I forget them, and they are always under foot, in places like this. I trip over them, and they interrupt my thoughts.”
“I’m so glad you are true to type,” she smiled up at him.