A young man of intelligence may absorb a great many psychological
truths while helping to build in pictures mock dramas more or less
similar to real, human problems. Gary wore a brain under his mop of
brown hair, and he had that quality of stubbornness which will adopt
strategy--guile, even--for the sake of winning a fight. To-night, he
chose to assume the air of defeat that he might win ultimate
victory.
Gary had not the slightest intention of ruining his own future as
well as Patricia’s by yielding with an easy, “Oh, very well”
surrender, and going away into the wilds of Nevada to attempt the
raising of cattle in a district so worthless that it had never so
much as seen a surveyor’s transit. Desert it must be; a howling
waste of sand and lizards and snakes. The very fact that Patricia
had been able, with a few thousands of dollars, to buy out a
completely equipped cattle ranch, damned the venture at once as the
mad freak of a romantic girl’s ignorance. He set himself now to the
task of patiently convincing Patricia of her madness.
Patricia, however, was not to be convinced. For every argument of
Gary’s she found another to combat it. She repeated more than once
the old range slogan that you simply can’t lose money in cattle. She
told Gary that here was an opportunity, sent by a watchful
Providence, for him to make good in a really worth-while business;
and urged upon him the theory that pioneering brings out the best
qualities in a man.
She attacked furiously Gary’s ambition to become a screen star,
reminding him how cheap and paltry is that success which is based
only upon a man’s good looks; and how easily screen stars fall
meteorically into the hopeless void of forgotten favorites.
“It isn’t just that I’ve dreamed all my life of owning cattle and
living away out in the wilderness,” she finished, with reddened
cheeks and eyes terribly in earnest. “I know the fine mettle you’re
made of, Gary, and I couldn’t see it spoiled while they fed your
vanity at the studios.
“I had the money to buy this cattle ranch at Johnnywater--but of
course I knew that I should be perfectly helpless with it alone. I
don’t know the business of raising cattle, except that I know the
most popular kinds of stock food and the prices and freight rates to
various points. But you were born on a cattle ranch, Gary, and I
knew that you could make a success of it. I knew that you could go
and take charge of the ranch, and put the investment on a paying
basis; which is a lot better than just leaving that money in the
bank, drawing four and a half per cent. And I’ll go on with the
milling company until the ranch is on its feet. My salary can go
into what improvements are necessary. It’s an ideal combination, I
think.”
She must have felt another argument coming to speech behind Gary’s
compressed lips; for she added, with a squared chin to give the
statement force,
“This isn’t threatening--a threat is always a sign of conscious
weakness. I merely wish to make the statement that unless you go
over and take charge of the Johnnywater ranch, I shall go myself. I
absolutely _refuse_ to sell. I don’t know anything about running a
ranch, and I was never on a horse in my life, so I’d undoubtedly
make a beautiful mess of it. But I should have to tackle it, just
the same; because I really can’t afford to positively throw away
five thousand dollars, you know. I should have to make some attempt
to save it, at least. When I failed--as I probably should--I’d have to
go away somewhere and get a job I hated, and develop into a sour old
maid. Because, Gary, if you flatly refused to take charge over
there, as you _threaten_ to do, we certainly couldn’t marry and
expect to live together happily with Johnnywater ranch as a skeleton
in our closet.
“So that’s where I stand, Gary. Naturally, the prospect doesn’t
appeal to you at this moment. You’re sitting here in a big,
overstuffed chair, fed on good things, with a comfy cushion behind
your shoulders and a shaded light over your head. You look very
handsome indeed--and you know it just as well as I do. You are
perfectly aware of the fact that this would make a stunning close-up
of you--with the camera set to show your profile and that
heart-disturbing wave over your right temple.
“Just at this minute you don’t particularly care about sitting on a
wooden chair in a cabin away out in the wilderness, hearing coyotes
howl on a hill and your saddle horses champing hay in a sod-roofed
stable, and you thinking how it’s miles to the nearest neighbor--and
an audience! You’ve reached the point, Gary, where a little mental
surgery is absolutely necessary to your future mental health. I can
see that your soul is beginning to show symptoms of going a tiny bit
flabby. And I simply _loathe_ flabby-souled men with handsome faces
and shoulders as broad as yours!”
That was like jabbing Gary in the back with a hatpin. He sat up with
a jerk.
“Flabby-souled! Good Lord, Pat! Why pile up the insults? This is
getting good, I must say!” He leaned back in the chair again, the
first effect of the jab having passed. “I can stand all this
knocking the movie game--I’m used to it, heck knows. I might just
point out, however, that making a living by expressing the emotions
of men in stories is no worse than pounding a typewriter for a
living. What’s the difference whether you sell your profile or your
fingers? And what do you think----”
“I think it’s ten o’clock, Gary Marshall, and I’ve said what I have
to say and there’s no argument, because I simply won’t argue. I
suppose you’ll need sleep if you still have to be at the studio at
seven o’clock in the morning so that you can get into your painted
eyebrows and painted eyelashes and painted lips for the day’s
smirk.”
Gary heaved himself out of his chair and reached for his hat,
forgetting to observe subconsciously how effectively he did it.
Patricia’s mental surgery had driven the lance deep into his pride
and self-esteem, which in a handsome young man of twenty-four is
quite as sensitive to pain as an eyeball. Patricia had omitted the
mental anesthetic of a little flattery, and she had twisted the
knife sickeningly. Painted eyelashes and painted lips nauseated Gary
quite suddenly; but scarcely more than did the thought of that ranch
of a hundred cattle in a Nevada desert, which Patricia had beggared
herself to buy.
“Well, good night, Pat. I must be going. Awfully pleasant
evening--great little dinner and all that. I wish you all kinds of
luck with your cattle ranch. ’Bye.”
Patricia did not believe that he would go like that. She thought he
was merely bluffing. She did not so much as move a finger until he
had shut the door rather decisively behind him and she heard his
feet striking firmly on the cement walk that led to the street.
A slight chill of foreboding quivered along her spine as the
footsteps sounded fainter and fainter down the pavement. She had
known Gary Marshall for three years and had worn a half-carat
diamond for six months. She had argued with him for hours; they had
quarreled furiously at times, and he had registered anger,
indignation, arrogance and hurt pride in several effective forms.
But she had never before seen him behave in just this manner.
Of course he would hate that little slam of hers about the paint and
the profile, she told herself hearteningly. She had struck
deliberately at his pride and his vanity, though in justice she was
compelled to confess to herself that Gary had very little vanity for
a man so good-looking as he was. She had wanted him to hate what she
said, so that he would be forced to give up the movie life which she
hated. Still, his sudden going startled her considerably.
It occurred to her later that he had absent-mindedly carried off her
papers. She remembered how he had stuffed them into his coat
pocket--just as if they were his and didn’t amount to much
anyway--while the argument was going on. Well, since he had taken
them away with him he would have to return them, no matter how mad
he was; and in the meantime it might do him good to read them over
again. He couldn’t help seeing how she had burned her financial
bridges behind her--for his sake.
Patricia brushed her eyes impatiently with her fingers and sighed.
In a moment she pinned on an apron and attacked the dinner dishes
savagely, wondering why women are such fools as to fall in love with
a man, and then worry themselves into wrinkles over his
shortcomings. Six months ago, Gary Marshall had not owned a fault to
his name. Now, her whole heart was set upon eradicating faults which
she had discovered.
“He shall _not_ be spoiled--if I have to quarrel with him every day!
There’s something more to him than that mop of wavy brown hair that
won’t behave, and those straight eyebrows that won’t behave either,
but actually _talk_ at you--and those eyes---- That darned leading girl
can’t make _me_ believe it’s all acting, when she rolls her eyes up
at him and snuggles against his shoulder. That’s _my_ shoulder! And
Gary says selling your profile is like selling your fingers! It
might be--if the boss bought my fingers to _kiss_! And I don’t care!
It was positively indecent, the way Gary kissed that girl in his
last picture. If he wasn’t such a dear----”
Patricia snuffled a bit while she scraped chicken gravy off a plate.
Gary’s plate. “Let him sulk. He’ll come back when he cools off. And
he’ll _have_ to give in and go to Nevada. He’ll never see me lose
five thousand dollars. And those nasty little movie queens can find
somebody else to roll up their eyes at. Oh, darn!”