That morning Reben had wakened early with a head full of inspirations.
He was fairly lyrical with ideas. He wanted to talk them over with
Sheila. He called up her room. Pennock answered the telephone.
“Can I speak to Miss Kemble?”
“She—she’s not up yet.”
“Oh! Well, as soon as she is up have her let me know. I want a word with
her.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pennock, in dismay, called up Winfield’s hotel to forewarn Sheila. But
Winfield had gone out, leaving word that his wife was not to be
disturbed. Pennock left a message that she was to call up Miss Pennock
as soon as she was disturbable. The message was put in Winfield’s box.
When he came in he did not stop at the desk to inquire for messages,
since he expected none.
Reben grew more and more eager to explain his new ideas to Sheila. He
called up Pennock again.
“Isn’t Miss Kemble up yet?”
“Oh yes,” said Pennock.
“I want to speak to her.”
The distracted Pennock groped for the nearest excuse:
“She—she’s gone out.”
“But I told you to tell her! Didn’t you tell her I wanted to speak to
her?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing, sir; nothing,” Pennock faltered. She had told one big lie that
morning and her invention was exhausted.
“That’s damned funny,” Reben growled. Slapping the receiver on the hook,
he went to the cigar-stand, fuming, and bought a big black cigar to bite
on.
When plays are failures one’s friends avoid one. When plays are
successes strangers crowd forward with congratulations. The cigar girl
said to the angry manager, who had given her free tickets the night
before; “That’s a lovely show, Mr. Reben. I had a lovely time, and Miss
Kemble is simpully love-la.”
A stranger who was poking a cheap cigar into the general chopper spoke
in: “I was there last night, too—me and the wife. You the manager?”
Reben nodded impatiently.
The stranger went on: “That’s a great little star you got there—Miss
Kemble—or Mrs. Winfield, I suppose I’d ought to say.”
Reben looked his surprise. “Mrs. Winfield?”
“Yes. She’s stopping at our hotel with her husband. Right nice-lookin’
feller. Actor, too, I s’pose? I’m on here buying furniture. I always
stop at the Emerton. Right nice hotel. Prices reasonable; food fair to
middlin’. Has she been married long?”
But Reben had moved off. He was in a mood to believe any bad rumor.
This, being the worst news imaginable, sounded true. He felt queasy with
business disgust and with plain old-fashioned moral shock. He rushed for
the telephone-booth and clawed at the book till he found the number of
the Emerton Hotel. He was puffing with anxious wrath.
When Winfield answered, Reben almost collapsed. While he waited he took
his temper under control. When he heard Sheila’s voice quivering with
all the guilt in the world he mumbled, quietly:
“Oh, Sheila, I’d like to have a word with you.”
“Wh-where?” Sheila quivered.
“Here. No—at the theater. No—yes, at the theater.”
“All right,” she mumbled. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”