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——”