I was standing near, and heard the beginning of their
conversation. “Oh, Miss Magna, I’m
so pleased to meet you. I’ve heard so much
about you from Miss Dulles.”
“Miss Dulles?”
“Yes; Dorothy Dulles.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I
ever heard of her.”
“What? Dorothy Dulles, the screen actress?”
“No, I can’t place her.”
“But—but she’s a star!”
“Well, but you know, Mr. Stebbins—there
are so many stars in the heavens, and not all of them
visible to the eye.”
I turned to Bertie’s mamma. She had discovered
that Carpenter looked even more thrilling on a close
view; he was not a stage figure, but a really grave
and impressive personality, exactly the thing to thrill
the ladies of the Higher Arts Club at their monthly
luncheon, and to reflect prestige upon his discoverer.
So here she was, inviting the party to share her box
at the theatre; and here was T-S explaining that it
couldn’t be done, he had got to see his French
revolution pictures took, dey had five tousand men
hired to make a mob. I noted that Mrs. Stebbins
received the “advertising” figures on
the production!
The upshot of it was that the great lady consented
to forget her box at the theatre, and run out to the
studios to see the mob scenes for the “The Tale
of Two Cities.” T-S hadn’t quite finished
his dinner, but he waved his hand and said it was
nuttin’, he vouldn’t keep Mrs. Stebbins
vaitin’. He beckoned the waiter, and signed
his magic name on the check, with a five-dollar bill
on top for a tip. Mrs. Stebbins collected her
family and floated to the door, and our party followed.
I expected another scene with the mob; but I found
that the street had been swept clear of everything
but policemen and chauffeurs. I knew that this
must have meant rough work on the part of the authorities,
but I said nothing, and hoped that Carpenter would
not think of it. The Stebbins car drew up by
the porte-cochere; and suddenly I discovered why the
wife of the street-car magnate was known as a “social
leader.” “Billy,” she said,
“you come in our car, and bring Mr. Carpenter;
I have something to talk to you about.”
Just that easily, you see! She wanted something,
so she asked for it!
I took Carpenter by the arm and put him in. Bertie
drove, the chauffeur sitting in the seat beside him.
“Beat you to it!” called Bertie, with
his invincible arrogance, and waved his hand to the
picture magnate as we rolled away.
As it happened, we made a poor start. Turning
the corner into Broadway, we found ourselves caught
in the jam of the theatre traffic, and our car was
brought to a halt in front of the “Empire Varieties.”
If you have been on any Broadway between the Atlantic
and Pacific oceans, you can imagine the sight; the
flaring electric signs, the pictures of the head line
artists, the people waiting to buy tickets, and the
crowds on the sidewalk pushing past. There was
one additional feature, a crowd of “rah-rah boys,”
with yellow and purple flags in their hands, and the
glory of battle in their eyes. As our car halted,
the cheer-leader gave a signal, and a hundred throats
let out in unison:
