"I thought of a lot of new things for my characters to say, while I was
coming up from Kentucky on the train, and I want to put them in." Miss
Adair further tortured Vandeford.
"This morning I am going to talk to the electrician and the costumer and
the scene painter." Mr. Vandeford answered by telling her the truth,
because, with her very beautiful and candid eyes beaming into his,
showing both interest and consideration, he had not the power to make up
any kind of lie to put her off the trail of "The Purple Slipper."
"I am so glad that I got up early and am ready to go with you! I can
tell them about what my great-grandmother really wore when it all
happened, and it will be such a help to them!" Miss Adair exclaimed
with great business acumen shining in her eyes. Mr. Vandeford gave up
the fight, piloted her into his car, and gave the command, "Office!" to
the very decorous, but very much interested Valentine.
As they were skimming back up the avenue and about to turn into
Forty-second Street, an inspiration came to Mr. Vandeford.
"Didn't you keep some of those costumes of the period of the play hid
away in an old brass-nailed leather trunk in your garret?" he asked Miss
Adair, with desperate eagerness shining in his eyes.
"Yes," Miss Adair answered readily. Then she hesitated, and the genuine
blush rivaled the one in the northeast corner of the bouquet at the
waist of the very chic, blue-silk suit. "That is, I did have some--"
"Have they been destroyed?" questioned Mr. Vandeford, with the greatest
anxiety.
"No, not exactly," answered Miss Adair, with a distressed tremor at the
corner of her curved mouth that rivaled a rose of a deeper hue in the
southwest corner of the bouquet.
"I see," answered Mr. Vandeford, with great relief. "You are not just
sure where they are. That's great! You can have a talk with Mr. Corbett,
who is to design the costumes, and then hop right back home in a day or
two, as soon as you are rested and we've had a little bat on Broadway,
and find them for him to use in his designs. The management will pay all
the expenses and you can--can--"
Mr. Vandeford cast around in his mind for some other business in
connection with "The Purple Slipper" that would keep the author thereof
busy and contented in Adairville, Kentucky, out of the clutches of
Violet and out of the way of his stage director until it all was running
smoothly.
"How about your getting a lot of photographs of the house in which it
all happened?" he went on. Vaguely he felt photography must be a slow
process in Adairville, Kentucky.
Also, in his heart he was forced to acknowledge that his inspiration for
getting the author out of the way of her own play while it was being
murdered was not entirely original. Tradition had told him, whether
truly or not, that at a certain crucial moment in the butchering and
rehearsal of "The Great Divide" the poet-author, Moody, had been sent
West to hunt a genuine war costume for a great Indian war-chief, his
favorite written character, and on his return with the trophy had found
the Indian cut entirely and forever from the play.
"Those dresses would be the greatest help you could give us now," he
urged with an inward chuckle at the thought of the trick on the great
poet, which froze in his heart as he observed two tears balanced on the
black lashes of the lovely sea-gray eyes lowered away from his.
"What's the matter?" he gasped, in desperate fear that the Moody Indian
story had penetrated to the wilds of Adairville, Kentucky. "You'd only
be gone a few days, and everything could wait until you came back. I
wouldn't turn a wheel without you, and--" he committed himself deeper
and deeper at every step.
"I've had the dresses all made over, and this is one. I've hurt my play
just because I wanted to look pretty in New York! I'm humiliated with
myself. As if anybody cared how I look; and the play--" The soft little
slurs stopped and the beautiful old-blue-silk-clad shoulder trembled
slightly against his shoulder as a little ghost of a sob came to the
surface and was suppressed while the home-made color faded from beneath
two tears that fell from the black lashes.
"Oh, please forgive me, child! It doesn't matter at all, and--"
"You oughtn't to forgive me," the voice trembled on. "Miss Hawtry would
have been wonderful in that dinner dress my grandmother wore, and
I--I've had two made out of it! I can give them to her and tell her how
to put them together again with--"
"You'll do nothing of the kind!" fairly snapped Mr. Vandeford. Then he
broke the record in his own thinking processes and decided for the
second time to tell the whole truth to this country girl with her
mixture of hay-seeds and patrician airs. He directed Valentine to
Central Park and made a clean breast of it. It is a pleasure to record
that at the Moody Indian story Patricia laughed until two other tears
ran down her cheeks, but this time they did not wring Mr. Vandeford's
heart, for they coursed over the accustomed roses and were a great
pleasure to him.
"I'll go home if you want me to," the talented author of "The Purple
Slipper" offered, with a small snap in her eyes, mingled with the
accustomed veneration of Mr. Vandeford, her producer. "I don't want to
be in anybody's way. I thought I had to come and spend all my money. I
want to see the Metropolitan and the Aquarium and Brooklyn Bridge and
Trinity Church, ... and ... a Midnight Frolic, because Mamie Lou
Whitson, at home, is expecting me to go to one even if Miss Elvira said
I ought not to. Can I see just one Frolic before I go home?"
"If you go home now the whole 'Purple Slipper' will go into cold storage
until you come back," Mr. Vandeford growled at her, and the effort it
took not to hold on to her with bodily fingers was a great strain. "I
told you the usual situation because I felt that you were clever enough
to make the best of it and help the play a lot. No author ever has seen
a play produced as he wrote it, and he has to stand seeing everybody
take a whack at it, from the producer to the man who takes the tickets
at the front door. I've got a good playwright shut up until Friday
rewriting 'The Purple Slipper'; then I'm going to work at it myself and
let Miss Hawtry write in all the things she wants to say, and cut out
all the things she doesn't. After that, I'm going to turn it over to
Bill Rooney, who was born in a barrel down on the wharf and educated in
the gutter, but who is the best and highest-priced stage director in New
York. He'll do innumerable things to it while he's 'setting it,' as he
calls getting it ready for rehearsals. All the actors and actresses will
be allowed at times to butcher and scalp their parts and everybody will
stab. And if you are a plucky girl you'll sit still and see it done.
There will come lots of times that everything you suggest, even very
timidly, will be thrust down your throat; but if they are vital they
will get under the hide of Bill and opening night you'll see that your
pluck has put a lot into the whole thing and that the mutilated and
dressed-up play is still your child. Will you trust me and sit in with
me and help me make 'The Purple Slipper' go?"
"I do! I will!" answered Miss Adair, with her head in the air and the
Adairville roses flaunting themselves in her face. And as she spoke she
offered him her slim, long-fingered, white little hand that his
completely engulfed as, answering a signal, Valentine turned the car
back toward Forty-second Street. "If I've got to have thorns stuck in me
and then cut out I'm mighty glad you'll be there."
"Yes, I'll be there," he answered her softly, as he released her hand at
least two seconds sooner than he was really obliged to, though he
himself could not have said why he did it. He felt like a grown person
who frightens a child with a bear tale to make it cuddle to his own
strength in the firelight.
Then followed a day in the offices of Mr. Godfrey Vandeford, Theatrical
Producer, which, up to that time, could not have been duplicated on
Broadway and perhaps never will be, though the results may have the
effect of--but that was all in the future of the theatrical business at
that time.
"Mr. Meyers," said Mr. Vandeford, as he ushered the author of "The
Purple Slipper" into the outer offices, where he found Pops soothing and
controlling about seven enraged experts in different lines of dramatic
production, "Miss Adair will have the small office from now on to work
in when she is not in consultation with me. Please take her in and see
that she is made at home while I run through my mail. Yes, Mr. Corbett,
I will be ready for you in a few minutes. Sorry to detain you, all of
you," with which apology to the body of assembled experts Mr. Vandeford
bowed, went into his sanctum, and firmly closed the door, just as Mr.
Adolph Meyers bowed the author into her sanctum and as firmly closed her
door. Mr. Gerald Height, who had been sitting looking indifferently out
of Mr. Meyers' window, looked after the disappearing author as if a
perfumed breeze had suddenly blown across his brow, and whistled softly.
"Say, Pops, who, by thunder is--," he was questioning Mr. Meyers with
extreme interest, when Mr. Vandeford's buzzer sounded and Mr. Meyers was
forced to answer it before he could attend to Mr. Height's question.
Mr. Meyers found Mr. Vandeford pale, but determined.
"Pops," he said, and Mr. Meyers could have sworn that the voice of his
beloved chief trembled, "I'm in the devil of a fix, and you have got to
throw me a line to pull out; in fact, you'll have to cast in a drag-net
if you want to land me."
"If it was a submarine I would make a rescue of you, Mr. Vandeford,
sir," the faithful henchman assured the panic-stricken producer.
"She's worse than any submarine ever floated, and I'm rammed--in a
corner, Pops. To make a story that is going to be long in acting, short
in telling, I've had to put Miss Adair on to what is usually handed out
to the authors of plays, and then to stop her wails, offered to let her
sit in and watch her play baby hacked up. Her office-hours here and at
rehearsals will be from ten mornings to midnight, and what are you going
to do about it?" Mr. Vandeford questioned Mr. Meyers with a kind of
forlorn hope in his eyes, for Mr. Meyers had often seen him through the
crooks of his trade.
"I advise to make it straight to her, Mr. Vandeford, sir, and she will
come out all right or otherwise go home. That young lady has the look of
a horse on which I won seven hundred at the last Gravesend. Besides, we
have not time for play-acting about that 'Purple Slipper.' It is a cold
bird and we must be in a hurry about putting pep into it for a success."
"Right-o, Pops! I'll ask her in here, and when I buzz send in Corbett.
The poor kiddie!" With which lamentation over the fate he was about to
mete out to Miss Adair, Mr. Vandeford dismissed Mr. Meyers and opened
the door which led from his sanctum into that which had been so recently
assigned to the author of "The Purple Slipper."
That eminent playwright was discovered in the height of fascination,
looking down upon the uproar of Broadway.
"I saw a taxicab run over a man and not kill him," she exclaimed with
both horror and joy. "I started to call you, but it was all over in a
second."
"That's all right. I've seen that hundreds of times, even when they were
killed." He reassured her about neglecting to share the excitement with
him. "Are you ready to take up the matter of costumes with Corbett?"
"Shall I have to tell him--about my making over--"
"No; just listen to me handle him, and I'll tell you when to break in.
I'll give you a lead. Please come into my office." And with coolness of
manner, but trepidation of heart, he led her into his office and seated
her in a chair beside his at the far side of the desk,--the very chair
in which had sat Mr. Dennis Farraday on the day previous, when he had
received his initiation into the world of theatricals. Then he buzzed
his signal to Mr. Meyers.
Immediately Mr. Corbett entered.
"Morning, Corbett.--Miss Adair, the author of the play I want to talk
to you about.--Want to take on a costume play of early Kentucky?" Mr.
Vandeford made no pause in which to allow Mr. Corbett to acknowledge his
introduction to the author, and Mr. Corbett seemed to bear no resentment
for the omission. His astonishment at meeting an author when the
costuming of a play was being discussed was profound.
"What date?" he inquired, looking carefully away from Miss Adair.
"What date, Miss Adair?" asked Mr. Vandeford in exactly the same crisp
tone in which he was conducting the negotiations with Mr. Corbett.
"1806, I think. It was just before they began to wear--" Miss Adair was
beginning to say with a delighted smile that entirely failed to make an
impression on Mr. Corbett.
"Good date for costuming," the artist interrupted the author to say,
with the easy assurance of a person fully informed. "Styles were
distinctive. I dressed 'Lovers' Ends' for E. and K. in 1789, and the
costumes kept the piffling play alive for two months. How many dolls and
how many boots?"
"How many men and how many ladies in the play, Miss Adair?" Mr.
Vandeford questioned her with delight at getting a question to fling to
her and also translating for her Mr. Corbett's query.
"Twenty in all," answered Miss Adair. "There are eleven ladies with
the--"
"Split even," Mr. Corbett took the words out of her mouth. "Want sole
leather or tissue paper, Mr. Vandeford?" Miss Adair caught by psychic
sympathy the fact that he was asking if the play was to be costumed as
one intended to survive. Consequently her very soul hung on the answer
Mr. Vandeford must make to Mr. Corbett's question.
"To play about thirty, I should say," answered Mr. Vandeford after a two
minutes' calculating.
"Only a month?" gasped Miss Adair, then colored home-made pink in the
height of embarrassment.
"Weeks." Mr. Vandeford answered her gasp without looking at her, but
taking the vow gallantly, considering that he felt Mazie Villines to be
his sole dependence for a winning manuscript version of "The Purple
Slipper."
During this question and answer Mr. Corbett was also calculating.
"About seven thousand if Adelaide makes the Hawtry layout," he finally
announced.
"Five hundred advance for the sketches, and a week's option," Mr.
Vandeford offered calmly.
"A thousand advance for models of costumes made up," answered Mr.
Corbett, just as calmly and firmly. "Have to hunt in museum for
materials to go by. Takes experts on fabrics."
"I can give you pieces of silk and things that are cut from the costumes
of that period." Miss Adair had learned, and she cut her remark into
the conference with precision and decision.
"Genuine?" questioned Mr. Corbett.
"Worn by the characters about whom the play is written."
"Then seven hundred and fifty for made-up models, Mr. Vandeford," Mr.
Corbett offered.
"The pieces will be large enough to make the models," Miss Adair said
with a curt firmness that was a combination of that used by both Mr.
Vandeford and Mr. Corbett and which both startled and delighted the
former.
"Six hundred for models, Corbett," he said with finality and with an
inward chuckle.
"Six-fifty, Mr. Vandeford," Mr. Corbett answered with equal finality,
and for the first time he stole a glance at the author.
"Goes! When?"
"Two weeks?"
"Goes! Good-morning, Mr. Corbett!"
Mr. Corbett's exit was immediate.
"I'm glad Miss Elvira made me put all the pieces of my dresses in my
trunk to patch with in case I tore anything. They saved us four hundred
dollars, didn't they?" Miss Adair said to Mr. Vandeford with gratified
business acumen shining in the sea-gray eyes. "I wasn't much in the way,
was I?"
"You were a great help, and that was the first time I ever succeeded in
jewing Corbett," answered Mr. Vandeford with satisfactory enthusiasm.
Something of relief over the guarding of his author showed in his voice,
which second note, however, he sounded too soon as the next ten minutes
proved to him. "Now we'll discuss the sets for the production with
Lindenberg and then it'll be time for luncheon, and we'll go--"
"Mr. Vandeford, sir, Mr. Height would like to be in next," Mr. Meyers
interrupted his chief, just a second too soon, or rather just in time,
for if Mr. Vandeford had settled Miss Adair's luncheon plans in that
second the fate of "The Purple Slipper" might have been different.
"Show him in, Pops, and have the rest come back at two-thirty," Mr.
Vandeford commanded.
Mr. Gerald Height entered.
For five successive seasons on Broadway, with brief dazzling flights
into the provincial towns of Chicago, Boston, Washington, and
Philadelphia, Mr. Gerald Height had been the reigning beauty, and he
well deserved it. He was both slender and broad, with the grace of a
faun in young manhood, and with the deviltry of a satyr of more advanced
age in his yellow-green eyes, which tilted under high black brows that
were arched penciled bows across his forehead. His lips were full and
red, but chiseled like a youth's on a Greek frieze and they were mobile
and tender and hard by turns. His red-gold hair clung to his head in
burnished waves, and this head was set upon his broad, strong shoulders
as a flower is set on its parent plant, and his smile was a conquering
triumph. He poured it all over Miss Adair as Mr. Vandeford introduced
them, and took the chair opposite the producer and the author, with the
light from the window fully revealing all of his charms.
"New Hawtry play on, Height, by Miss Adair." Mr. Vandeford began the
conversation with his usual directness, and somehow his voice was
crisper than usual, for he seemed to get a shock from the radiance of
the stage beauty before him that pushed him, with his white-tinged black
hair, well forward into middle age.
"Dolph was telling me, and I ran through a synopsis he had on the
machine. Powder and furbelows!" As he spoke Mr. Height smiled at Miss
Adair with appreciation of herself and got in return a smile of the same
degree of appreciation of himself, both smiles not at all lost on the
psychologically aging Mr. Vandeford.
"That clause in your contract that lets you out of all costume plays is
perfectly good, you know," Mr. Vandeford heard himself saying when he
had intended to bluster that same clause aside if the favorite had tried
to stand on it, because he well knew that to see Gerald Height in silk
stockings and lace ruffles a quarter of a million women might be counted
upon to pay two dollars per capita and so assure at least a fifteen per
cent. certainty to the box-office receipts of "The Purple Slipper,"
whose fate had mysteriously come in the last few hours to mean so much
to him. "Mr. Meyers has a youngster that we can whip into lead, I think.
Now thank me for letting you out, and run along."
"Oh," ejaculated Miss Patricia Adair, and the little exclamation of
dismay hit both men at once and made them both sit up straight in their
chairs. Also they both looked for a long minute at Miss Adair, and both
were aware of the other's scrutiny. Mr. Height broke the tension.
"I might see how buckskins and powdered wig would go," he said, with a
tentative glance across the table, which began with Mr. Vandeford and
ended with Miss Adair.
"I think you would be perfectly beautiful, and I hope--" Miss Adair
paused, and Mr. Height was as competent as either Miss Hawtry or Miss
Lindsey had been to judge of the home-made color under the gray eyes.
Also he was as much, perhaps more, affected by it, though in the
presence of Mr. Vandeford he was wise enough to dissemble his delight.
"Want me to try, Mr. Vandeford?" he questioned with greater deference
than he had ever shown a mere manager in the last five years of his
triumphant career.
"Of course, it would be a fifteen-per cent. drag if you are willing,"
answered Mr. Vandeford with managerial delight and manly rage.
"Can I have until to-morrow to decide?" asked Mr. Height. "You see, I
haven't read the play or heard the layout," he added to the author of
"The Purple Slipper," with deference in his rich voice that had thrilled
its millions.
"Could you make it this afternoon if Mr. Meyers goes into it with you?
My other man has a big picture offered him at a good figure," Mr.
Vandeford answered, with both fear and joy at the prospect of pressing
the star into retreat.
"Dolph has told me all he knows about it, which is nothing. He hasn't
taken out any parts and seems to have lost the manuscript forever. I
hope you kept a copy, Miss Adair." And again the two young things smiled
at each other to Mr. Vandeford's devastation.
"Why couldn't I tell Mr. Height about the play while you see the
electrician and the other people, Mr. Vandeford?" Miss Adair questioned,
her candid gray eyes shining with such a sincere desire to be useful in
the crisis that Mr. Vandeford could not suspect her of any adventurous
motive. "We could go over in--into my office and you can call me any
minute if you need me."
"Great!" exclaimed Mr. Height. "Then I could let you know right away if
I thought I could do the part justice, Mr. Vandeford."
"Goes!" answered Mr. Vandeford, as he motioned them into the inner
office, which had been conferred upon the author of "The Purple
Slipper," and rang his buzzer for Mr. Meyers.
"Find Mr. Farraday and ask him to come around here immediately if he is
anywhere near, or to come at four if he can't get here in ten minutes,"
he commanded. "Heard from Mazie?"
"Mr. Howard is in a good working soak, is her report, Mr. Vandeford,
sir, and I have the wire that Mr. Farraday is on his way here," was the
double answer Mr. Meyers returned to Mr. Vandeford.
"Good! Give me my letters to sign," Mr. Vandeford answered.
Mr. Meyers brought in a sheaf of letters, and Mr. Vandeford was in the
act of setting pen to paper when the door of the inner office opened
after a gentle knock and Miss Adair entered, followed by Mr. Height.
Mr. Vandeford looked up quickly and found Miss Adair close beside his
chair, looking down upon him with her beautiful reverence and confidence
in him entirely unimpaired.
"Mr. Height wants me to go and have luncheon with him and tell him about
the play. He's hungry, and so am I. Can you spare me if I'm working
while I'm eating? May I go?"
Mr. Vandeford rose to his feet quickly, and a great Broadway star was in
closer danger of descending head-first from a six-story window upon that
thoroughfare than he ever knew. Then "The Purple Slipper" rose and
demanded its chance of success with Gerald Height as "drag" and the
tragedy was averted.
"Run along, children, and don't spill your milk on your bibs," he
answered them, with a dissembling smile that would have done credit to
Mr. Height himself when upon the boards with Miss Hawtry. They departed
in great spirits, and Mr. Vandeford noticed that Mr. Height had not
been at all concerned as to how his manager's inner man would be served.
Thereupon Mr. Vandeford propped his feet upon the desk, got out one of
the most evil of the cigars he kept in a drawer of his desk for just
such crises, and went into communion with himself for ten minutes. Upon
that communion broke Mr. Dennis Farraday, who got the full force of it.
"I came to pick up you and Miss Adair to go out in the park to luncheon.
It's cooler there. Where is she?" were the words with which Mr.
Vandeford's partner in the production of "The Purple Slipper" greeted
him.
"She has gone out to luncheon with a damned tango lizard," was the
disturbed and disturbing answer his courtesy received.
"What do you mean?" demanded Mr. Farraday, bristling.
"She met Gerald Height a half-hour ago, here in this office, and then
went out to luncheon with him," was Mr. Vandeford's answer to Mr.
Farraday's bristling.
"Without consulting you?"
"No! I consented all right enough."
"Why didn't you tell her if you didn't want her to go with him?"
"See here, Denny, I want to ask you if anything in my past life makes
you think that I am a proper old hen to have a downy little chicken
thrust right under my wing for safe keeping, whether I hatched her or
not?" Mr. Vandeford demanded, and his rage was so perfectly impersonal
and perplexed that Mr. Farraday sat down to go into the matter to his
rescue.
"What do you mean, Van?" he asked in a calm voice and manner that were
most grateful to Mr. Vandeford.
"Just this: Here's a girl come up here, from a place where a girl is
guarded like a pearl of great price, into the muck and excitement of the
getting together of a Broadway production in which she is directly
interested. I don't know what to do. If I spend my time hovering over
her, her show will go cold and break her. She's poor. I told her as much
of what she is in for as I dared and still she wants to stay and see it
all through, demands to stay and be let in for the whole thing. What'll
we do?"
"Suppose she'd go with me up to visit the mater and be motored down to
participate in--in expurgated moments?" asked Mr. Farraday, as he
ruffled his hair into a huge plume on the top of his head.
"She would not. She's got a taste of it and she'll thirst for more. And,
for all that unsophistication, she is a clever kid. She'll get Height
into a costume play before luncheon is over and that'll go a long way to
cinch a hit for 'The Purple Slipper.' He's made a fad of not playing
costume, and all the women in New York will flock to see him in velvet
and lace. She bargained that fish Corbett out of four hundred dollars in
the preliminary costume deal, and if anybody has to send her home it
will have to be you. I can't do it."
"Well, just gently warn her about Height and things of that kind, can't
you?"
"I cannot! Would you tell a woman who is walking a tight rope that the
ground sixty feet below her is covered with broken champagne bottles?"
"Then she's got to go home," decided Mr. Dennis Farraday, positively.
"How'll you make her?"
"You've got to do it. She's got awe of you planted six feet deep in her
soul. Anybody could see that. You've got to send her."
"Can't be done," growled Mr. Vandeford in desperation. "Wish I were
married to six respectable women and then I could make 'em all chaperon
her in turns, while I feed her fool play to the public."
"You'd only have to strike out the syllable 'un' before 'married' by a
little trip to the City Hall to have one mighty fine wife," Mr. Farraday
said with a straight look into Mr. Vandeford's eyes, which was so deeply
affectionate that it gave him the privilege of opening the door to any
holy of holies.
"Violet and I are all off, Denny, and it ought never to have been on,"
was the straight-out answer he got to his venture, an answer that Miss
Hawtry would have felt smoothed greatly the path of her present
adventures in life.
"Poor girl! I knew she was hurt somehow, but I thought--forgive me, old
man." With a tenderness in his voice that both alarmed and puzzled Mr.
Vandeford his big Jonathan closed the subject and snapped a lock on it.
"Come over to the Astor with me for a cold bite."
"Goes!"
The cool, green-leafed Orangery at the Hotel Astor is the oasis in the
desert days of rehearsal for all early fall plays, and beside its
tinkling fountain and under its tinkling music can be found at luncheon
all of the theatrical profession who are not around the corners at the
equally cool, white-tiled Childs restaurants. Beside and around the
green wicker tables careers of managers, artists, actors, playwrights,
electricians, and scenic artists are made and unmade in the twinkling of
some bright or heavy-lidded eye. Each and every feaster watches each and
every other feaster with the quick, wary eye of a jungle being consuming
its food before it is snatched from him or her; and gossip reigns over
all.
"Gee, look at the swell dame Gerald Height has got cornered over there!"
exclaimed Mazie Villines, as she looked up from a frapped melon, which a
"heavy" moving picture man was "buying" for her consumption. "The way
them society queens do fall fer him!"
"Put your blinkers on, Mazie, put 'em on, and don't take a shy at Height
over my knife and fork! Let him eat what he pays for and me the same,"
growled the huge man. "I let you put up that drunk Howard for a week,
and that's rope enough."
"I'd like to feed him the green in his 'runny' eggs; it makes me sick to
open for him," was the adored Mazie's way of speaking of her eminent
playwright.
"Well, get his wad first," was the heavy's advice.
Just at this moment Mazie had the delight of seeing Mr. Godfrey
Vandeford enter with his "soup and fish" friend Mr. Dennis Farraday. As
they both had to pass directly by the table at which sat Miss Adair and
Mr. Height, of course they both paused for greetings, which included the
introduction of Mr. Height to Mr. Farraday.
"I could hardly eat in this beautiful cool place when I thought that
maybe you would work on in the hot office with nothing with ice packed
around it for your luncheon," said Miss Adair, as she raised her eyes to
Mr. Vandeford's with the adoration still intact after at least
three-quarters of an hour assault upon it by Mr. Gerald Height's
disturbing personality. "I wanted to go back for you, but Mr. Height
said that Mr. Meyers fed you cold pie when you were busy, and that you
roared dreadfully if anybody interrupted you when you were eating it!"
"He does," Mr. Farraday interjected, smiling down at her in a way that
it was unwise to do in the Orangery at noon; and it lighted a fuse he
little suspected. Miss Violet Hawtry caught the smile in mid-air and
then promptly turned her back and became all charming attention to the
gentleman with whom she was having luncheon, who was no other than the
celebrated Weiner, who had built three theatres in two years and was
building more. He was of the bull-necked type of Hebrew and not of the
sensitive, exquisite type of the sons of the House of David to which
belong the E. & K.'s, and the S. & S., as well as the great B. D.
"When will the new theatre be completed, Mr. Weiner?" Miss Hawtry asked,
as she turned over an iced shrimp and tore at a lettuce leaf with her
fork.
"October first," answered Mr. Weiner, past a mouthful of Russian
herring.
"What will the opening show be?" asked Miss Hawtry, with indifference,
though there was a glint under her thick lashes lowered over her
snapping Irish eyes.
"'The Rosie Posie Girl,'" answered Weiner, and he swallowed his herring
and gave her a shrewd glance at the same time.
"Vandeford will never sell it to you," Miss Hawtry announced calmly, as
she ate the shrimp and the torn lettuce leaf.
"Maybe!" answered Weiner with equal calmness. "What are his plans for
his new show that he is tearing up Forty-second Street about?"
"Road from September fifteenth until New York October first."
"What theater in New York?"
"I don't know." As she made this answer Miss Hawtry looked up and caught
a snap in Weiner's small black eyes, perched on each side of the hump of
his red nose.
"Has the show got goods?" he asked.
"I'm going to put some into it," answered Miss Hawtry calmly.
"Why?"
"I like Mr. Dennis Farraday, who's Vandeford's angel. I don't want to
see Van take the money out of his pocket and get away with it." Miss
Hawtry was dealing in half-truths to a lie expert.
"Hooked Farraday yet?"
"Not quite."
"No use bargaining with a woman when she's fishing for a man, but if he
slips the hook come to me and I'll show you a new bait. When do you
open?"
"Twenty-third of September, at Atlantic City."
"I'll be there."
"I hope you will, and--" but the rest of Miss Hawtry's remark was cut
off by Mr. Dennis Farraday's genial greeting, backed by Mr. Vandeford's
more restrained pleasure at happening upon her and her co-plotter, to
whom she introduced Mr. Farraday.
The exchange of amenities was as brief as it was cordial, but as Mr.
David Vandeford and Mr. Jonathan Farraday passed on to a table which
the discreet head waiter had reserved in case of the unexpected and
tardy arrival of just such personages as Mr. Godfrey Vandeford and his
friend, Mr. Farraday, Miss Hawtry had answered a low-voiced question
from Mr. Farraday with a sadly tender smile and the words:
"At eight?"
"The Claridge got me a box for the Big Show and a table at the Grove
Garden for to-night, Van," remarked Mr. Farraday, as he unfolded his
napkin. "It is the coolest place in town, and we might as well let the
kid get just one good peep before she goes back into the shell ... if
she goes. I'll take Miss Hawtry on and leave the box number for you and
Miss Adair."
"Right-o," answered Mr. Vandeford, with a growl. For the life of him he
could not understand just why Mr. Gerald Height should have the
privilege of feeding his author alone, while he seemed to be always
forced to enjoy her company in the presence of others. He looked across
the room, met the gray eyes laughing at him over a glass that was
plainly iced tea, and was forced to exchange smiles with his downy
little chicken, who was delightedly peeping out of her shell.
"I think Mr. Vandeford is the most wonderful man I ever met," confided
Miss Adair to Mr. Height, with no suspicion of the incitation such a
remark would be to the ardor of the beloved of many women.
"He's a great producer; had three big hits hand-running and fell down on
'Miss Cut-up' because he wouldn't stand up to Hawtry, and let her cop
the whole show," answered Mr. Height with great generosity, for in
reality Mr. Height had the very poor opinion of Mr. Vandeford that it is
the custom of all actors to hold in regard to their respective managers.
However, he was sugar-coating the pill he was determined to administer
to Miss Adair without delay. "He ought to marry Hawtry and get a bit in
her mouth and the spurs on."
"Is--is he in love with Miss Hawtry?" asked the author of "The Purple
Slipper" with great interest, and the home-made color rose several
degrees, that were not warranted by the calm gossip of the situation.
"That's the noise he makes, but who can tell?" answered Mr. Height,
reveling in the Adairville roses and no more aware of their origin than
was their owner. "He meets bills, but nobody gets in behind his
window-boxes." And Mr. Height raised his glass of Tom Collins, perfectly
contented with the thought that he had enlightened Miss Adair about the
private life of Mr. Vandeford. As a matter of fact he had failed utterly
to do so, as she had not understood a word of his Broadway patois.
"There's the great B. D. and beloved son-in-law," and Mr. Height nodded
and smiled at a white-haired man and his companion who were seating
themselves at the table next to them.
"B. D.?" questioned Miss Adair.
"Benjamin David," answered Mr. Height. "He and his son-in-law are
putting on a great new show. Offered me a lead and--but I think I'll
stick by 'The Purple Slipper.'" His eyes were so ardent as slightly to
disturb Miss Adair and very greatly disturb Mr. Vandeford, who caught
the warmth across several tables, and ground his teeth.
However, Miss Patricia Adair was fully capable of handling such a
situation, for ardor is ardor, whether encountered on Broadway in New
York or Adairville in Kentucky, and Miss Adair had met it many
times--and parried it.
"I've really got to leave this perfectly lovely place and hurry down to
the Y. W. C. A., to get some costume samples for Mr. Corbett," she said
calmly, as she began to draw on her gloves and pull down the veil that
reefed in the narrow brim of the jaunty hat Miss Lindsey and she had by
a great stroke of luck discovered on a side street the day before.
"Y. W. C. A.?" questioned Mr. Height, in stupefaction.
"Everybody looks that way when I say it!" laughed Miss Adair, with a
dimple flaunting above the left corner of her mouth. "Will you take me
there or put me on something or in something that will let me off very
near?"
"I'll take you," answered Mr. Height tenderly and heroically, as he held
the blue-silk coat for her to slip into.
As the two of them stood together the great Dean of American Producers
looked upon them with interest, and rose and offered his hand to Mr.
Height.
"Well, how about it?" he asked, with a smile under his beetling white
brows.
"Mr. David, please meet Miss Adair, the author of Mr. Vandeford's new
Hawtry play," Mr. Height said by way of beginning an answer to the
question put to him. "At last I'm going into wig and ruffles; the play
is of colonial Kentucky."
"I am delighted to meet you, Miss Adair," said the Broadway Maximus,
"and you are fortunate to have Mr. Height for your play. I covet him,
but I'll wait until next time."
"Oh, thank you for not taking him away!" said Miss Adair, with a
displaying of the roses which the great B. D. noted with pleasure. "Will
you come and see our play and tell us what you think about it?" Miss
Adair made her request, which was against the traditions of conventions
on Broadway, with the unabashed air with which she had invited the
reigning Governor of Kentucky to have dinner with her and Major Adair at
the state fair the year before.
"Ask Mr. Vandeford to invite me to a dress rehearsal," answered the
great one, and Gerald Height beamed with pride, while Miss Adair
displayed only gratitude and delight as they took their departure.
In their exit they passed Mr. Vandeford's table and stopped to speak to
him and Mr. Farraday.
"That's Benjamin David Mr. Height introduced to me, and he's coming to
help us at the dress rehearsals of 'The Purple Slipper.' It's
wonderful!" Miss Adair exclaimed, as Mr. Vandeford rose and stood
beside her. "Mr. Height is going down to the Y. W. C. A. with me, and
we'll be right back to the office with those pieces of silk for the
costumes. Mr. David wants him for lead, but he's going to be in 'The
Purple Slipper' and go to Mr. David next. Isn't that fine?" and without
waiting for an answer to her question the busy playwright departed on
important business connected with the costuming of her play.
"Somehow, Van, I don't see why we should worry," Mr. Farraday said, as
he looked at the retreating figures of the pair whose beauty was
attracting no little attention in the feasting Orangery. "She's getting
along all right, eh?"
"Remember you've been in the business about forty-eight hours, Denny,
and never forget that every knife here is sheathed in a smile and
everybody carries a rubber stamp with double X on it," answered Mr.
Vandeford, with gloom, as he pushed back his coffee-cup. "She's tasted
blood now and that ends it. She's with us, and the Lord help her! I
can't!"
"Well, come on and let's get to the office," answered Mr. Farraday, with
a cheerful lack of sympathy with his friend's anxiety for the talented
budding playwright.
"Everything all O. K., Mazie?" asked Mr. Vandeford, as he passed the
table where the Miss Villines and the heavy movie man were finishing
their bottles of cold beer.
"Soused and scribbling," answered Mazie, cheerfully.
"Remember, Friday."
"Remember your check-book."
"Goes!"
Shortly after Mr. Vandeford and Mr. Farraday reached the office of Mr.
Vandeford, Miss Adair, accompanied by Mr. Height, appeared with a neat
little parcel in their possession. Also Miss Adair had another, very
conventional, corsage bouquet in the place of the one Mr. Vandeford had
given her in the morning and which at luncheon had begun to look the
worse for wear.
"Now what shall I do?" she asked Mr. Vandeford, with great energy.
"Go right down and get in my car and go back to the Y. W. C. A., to take
a long nap. I'll call for you for that Broadway eye-opener at eight
o'clock to-night, so get 'em well rested," he answered, and he smiled
when he noted that the expression in her eyes that he had begun to look
for with desperate eagerness still held. Mr. Meyers had engaged Mr.
Height with a contract, and Mr. Farraday had been an interested
spectator to the tussle. Producer and author were alone.
"Mr. Height asked me to go to see Maude Adams, but I told him I couldn't
go anywhere at night until you could take me," said Miss Adair with
sparks of joy in the sea-gray eyes. "I'm so glad it is to-night."
"Did you really tell Height that?" demanded Mr. Vandeford, with youth
swelling through his arteries.
"Yes."
"Go, child, go and get a nap," Mr. Vandeford laughed, as he opened the
door for her and started out to descend and deliver her into the keeping
of faithful Valentine.
"I'll put her into the car, Van," offered Mr. Farraday. "They need you
here in this fight."
And again his author was snatched out of Mr. Vandeford's clutches.
Several hours later a very interesting scene was enacted in two tiny
adjoining rooms under the roof of the Y. W. C. A., with Miss Adair and
Miss Lindsey as the principals.
"If you take away all that net there won't be any waist left to the
dress. Don't!" pleaded Miss Adair, as Miss Lindsey stood over her with
determined scissors.
"I'm making it absolutely perfect, and you can't tell by looking down on
it. You'll have to trust me," answered Miss Lindsey, with pins in her
mouth, as she snipped away a funny little tucker of common new net with
which Miss Elvira Henderson of Adairville, Kentucky, had for the sake
of her spinster convictions ruined a triumph she had accomplished
directly out of "Feminine Fashions" and the ancestral trunk.
"Will it be--be modest?" demanded Miss Adair.
"A lot more modest than having that ugly mosquito netting telling
everybody that you are not willing to have them see your marvelous neck
and arms except through its meshes. Nobody will think you know you've
got 'em, if you show them like everybody else; but they'll think you
think you are a peep-show if you cover them half up." And as she spoke
Miss Lindsey gave another daring rip and snip. Her philosophy struck
home.
"That's every word true," agreed Miss Adair, with relief. "I'll just
forget about my skin there, as I do about that on my face and hands and
nobody will notice me at all."
"That's it. Skin is no treat to New York, and nobody will look at you
twice." Miss Lindsey had a struggle to keep her voice and manner
unconcerned enough, as she surveyed her finished product and saw that
from under her hands would go forth a sensation. In the old ivory satin
with its woven rosebuds and cream rose-point, above which rose pearly
shoulders and a neck bearing a small, proud head, with close waves of
heavy black hair, Miss Adair was like a dainty, luscious, tropical fruit
that is more beautiful than its own flower. "How an old maid in a
country town made that dress I don't see!" Miss Lindsey added
reflectively.
"It was you, who unmade it," answered Miss Adair with gratitude. "I wish
you were going, too," she added as she nestled to the taller girl for a
perfumed second.
"I'm going to luncheon with you and Mr. Farraday to-morrow," answered
Miss Lindsey, with a pleased laugh at Miss Adair's sudden clinging that
indicated her sincerity in not wishing to leave her alone.
"Oh, lovely! And Mr. Height will be with us too, for I promised to have
luncheon with him again," she exclaimed, as Miss Lindsey began to insert
her into an evening wrap made of a priceless old Paisley shawl which
"Fashions" had also tempted Miss Elvira to desecrate with her scissors.
"Gerald Height?" asked Miss Lindsey, and her eyes first snapped and then
smouldered. "Where did he get in on--where did you meet him? Does Mr.
Vandeford know about it and--"
"I met him in Mr. Vandeford's office. He's in 'The Purple Slipper,' and
I went to luncheon with him to-day. I meant to tell you about it, and
meeting Mr. David, but Mr. Vandeford told me to get a nap and I thought
I--"
Here the speaking-trumpet in the hall informed Miss Lindsey that Mr.
Vandeford was waiting for Miss Adair below, and she had to let her
treasure depart from her.
"I wonder just how straight Godfrey Vandeford is," she mused, as she
picked up the discarded tucker of coarse netting. "The poor kid! I wish
she was at home hidden behind Miss Elvira's skirts. Hawtry and a girl
like that! Damn men!"