The man was simply terrible. With dragging feet she retreated to her tent and for the boy’s clothes that somehow made her feel good and tough and ready to take chances with both hands, she submergedly substituted a frock that she was fiercely angry with herself to find herself, indubitably she herself, hoping would please him.
And it didn’t—no chance.
Not with that movie mahout.
“In the name of all that’s horrible!” he cried at her. “Is that the best thing you’ve got to offer in clothes? It doesn’t fit you—it flops! Here—that skirt wants shortening and it wants tightening too, and you can only see the half of the small of your back. Away with that flock of rags! Got any others—in heaven’s name, answer!”
“Yes—yes, sir.”
“Go in and put another one on then and for the love of Pete, try to pick something that looks like something above a dollar ninety-eight on a bargain counter. Take that off—quick! Must I be your dressmaker as well as your director?”
“O, sir,” sobbed Verbeena Mayonnaise.
“And hurry up about it,” came his slow but icy tones as she hurried tentwards to hurry up just as fast as she hasten well could.
“Let’s see,” he conceded on his second sight of her, “that’s awful as the other but—O well—come here then—here is him whom is to be your leading man in this heart-stirring and world-thrilling romance of my forthcoming creation. He is to be your leading man, but I will attend in all respects as to where he will lead you.”
Verbeena saw as she was introduced to this young man that he was exquisitely handsome, his face only saved from effeminacy by a firm chin. He was tall, lithe, slender as a wand. Although she had never been introduced to him before she recognized him instantly for it was Fatty Arbuckle!