"Ha," said North, "I see. May I ask her name?"
"Annie Ashton," said I, simply. "She played Nannette in Binkley &
Bing's production of 'The Silver Cord.' She is to have a better part
next season."
"Take me to see her," said North.
Miss Ashton lived with her mother in a small hotel. They were out
of the West, and had a little money that bridged the seasons. As
press-agent of Binkley & Bing I had tried to keep her before the
public. As Robert James Vandiver I had hoped to withdraw her; for if
ever one was made to keep company with said Vandiver and smell the
salt breeze on the south shore of Long Island and listen to the ducks
quack in the watches of the night, it was the Ashton set forth above.
But she had a soul above ducks--above nightingales; aye, even above
birds of paradise. She was very beautiful, with quiet ways, and
seemed genuine. She had both taste and talent for the stage, and she
liked to stay at home and read and make caps for her mother. She was
unvaryingly kind and friendly with Binkley & Bing's press-agent.
Since the theatre had closed she had allowed Mr. Vandiver to call in
an unofficial rôle. I had often spoken to her of my friend, Spencer
Grenville North; and so, as it was early, the first turn of the
vaudeville being not yet over, we left to find a telephone.
Miss Ashton would be very glad to see Mr. Vandiver and Mr. North.
We found her fitting a new cap on her mother. I never saw her look
more charming.
North made himself disagreeably entertaining. He was a good talker,
and had a way with him. Besides, he had two, ten, or thirty millions,
I've forgotten which. I incautiously admired the mother's cap,
whereupon she brought out her store of a dozen or two, and I took a
course in edgings and frills. Even though Annie's fingers had pinked,
or ruched, or hemmed, or whatever you do to 'em, they palled upon me.
And I could hear North drivelling to Annie about his odious Adirondack
camp.
Two days after that I saw North in his motor-car with Miss Ashton and
her mother. On the next afternoon he dropped in on me.
"Bobby," said he, "this old burg isn't such a bad proposition in the
summer-time, after all. Since I've keen knocking around it looks
better to me. There are some first-rate musical comedies and light
operas on the roofs and in the outdoor gardens. And if you hunt up
the right places and stick to soft drinks, you can keep about as cool
here as you can in the country. Hang it! when you come to think of
it, there's nothing much to the country, anyhow. You get tired and
sunburned and lonesome, and you have to eat any old thing that the
cook dishes up to you."
"It makes a difference, doesn't it?" said I.
"It certainly does. Now, I found some whitebait yesterday, at
Maurice's, with a new sauce that beats anything in the trout line I
ever tasted."
"It makes a difference, doesn't it?" I said.
"Immense. The sauce is the main thing with whitebait."
"It makes a difference, doesn't it?" I asked, looking him straight in
the eye. He understood.
"Look here, Bob," he said, "I was going to tell you. I couldn't help
it. I'll play fair with you, but I'm going in to win. She is the
'one particular' for me."
"All right," said I. "It's a fair field. There are no rights for you
to encroach upon."
On Thursday afternoon Miss Ashton invited North and myself to have
tea in her apartment. He was devoted, and she was more charming
than usual. By avoiding the subject of caps I managed to get a
word or two into and out of the talk. Miss Ashton asked me in a
make-conversational tone something about the next season's tour.
"Oh," said I, "I don't know about that. I'm not going to be with
Binkley & Bing next season."
"Why, I thought," said she, "that they were going to put the Number
One road company under your charge. I thought you told me so."
"They were," said I, "but they won't.. I'll tell you what I'm going
to do. I'm going to the south shore of Long Island and buy a small
cottage I know there on the edge of the bay. And I'll buy a catboat
and a rowboat and a shotgun and a yellow dog. I've got money enough
to do it. And I'll smell the salt wind all day when it blows from the
sea and the pine odor when it blows from the land. And, of course,
I'll write plays until I have a trunk full of 'em on hand.
"And the next thing and the biggest thing I'll do will be to buy that
duck-farm next door. Few people understand ducks. I can watch 'em
for hours. They can march better than any company in the National
Guard, and they can play 'follow my leader' better than the entire
Democratic party. Their voices don't amount to much, but I like to
hear 'em. They wake you up a dozen times a night, but there's a
homely sound about their quacking that is more musical to me than the
cry of 'Fresh strawber-rees!' under your window in the morning when
you want to sleep.
"And," I went on, enthusiastically, "do you know the value of ducks
besides their beauty and intelligence and order and sweetness of
voice? Picking their feathers gives you an unfailing and never-ceasing
income. On a farm that I know the feathers were sold for $400 in one
year. Think of that! And the ones shipped to the market will bring
in more money than that. Yes, I am for the ducks and the salt breeze
coming over the bay. I think I shall get a Chinaman cook, and with him
and the dog and the sunsets for company I shall do well. No more of
this dull, baking, senseless, roaring city for me."
Miss Ashton looked surprised. North laughed.
"I am going to begin one of my plays tonight," I said, "so I must be
going." And with that I took my departure.
A few days later Miss Ashton telephoned to me, asking me to call at
four in the afternoon.