“I’m glad I ran into you,” he told her. “I suppose you’ve been told that Enid—Mrs. Barr—is hot on your trail?”
“Yes,” Sally nodded, her lips too stiff with sudden fright to form the word.
“She’s almost convinced that you’re really Sally Ford,” he told her lightly. “And if she makes up her mind, there’s nothing in heaven or hell that can stop Enid Barr. A damnably persistent little wretch! I’ve never been able to understand Enid’s passion for succoring ‘fallen girls.’ She appears to be such a normal little pagan otherwise.”
Sally said nothing because she could not. But her sapphire eyes were enormous and her mouth was twitching piteously.
“Listen, Sally,” Van Horne leaned toward her suddenly, crushing her little brown-painted hands between his own immaculate white ones. “Let me get you out of this mess! I’ve been thinking a lot about you—too damned much for my peace of mind! And this is what I want to do—”
“Please!” Sally gasped, shrinking far into the corner of the seat, but unable to tear her hands from his.
“Wait till you’ve heard what I have to say, before you begin acting like a pure and innocent maid in the clutches of a movie villain!” Van Horne commanded her scornfully.
“I want to send you to New York, give you a year in a dancing academy that trains girls for the stage and a year in dramatic school—both at the same time, if possible. You’ve got the figure and the looks and the personality for a musical comedy star, or Arthur Van Horne is the ‘rube’ that you carnival people call him. What do you say, Sally? Think of it. A year or two with nothing to worry about except your studies and your dancing and then—Broadway! I’ll put you over if I have to buy a show for you! Come, Sally! Say ‘Thank you, Van. I’ll be ready to leave tomorrow.’”
As long as she lived, Sally Ford would remember with shame that for one moment she was tempted by Arthur Van Horne’s offer to prepare her for a stage career in New York. She had “play-acted” all her life; her heart’s desire before she had met David had been to become an actress, and in that one moment when she knew that realization of her ambition lay within her grasp she wanted to stretch out her hands and seize opportunity.
Her eyes glistened; she gasped involuntarily with delight. If Van Horne had not been hasty, if he had not snatched her to him with a strangled cry of triumph as his black eyes—mocking no longer, but wide and brilliant with desire—read the effect of his words, she might have committed herself, have promised him anything. But he did touch her, and her flesh instinctively recoiled, for every nerve in her body was still athrill with David’s good-night kiss.