“This, on the heels of the other, astounded me so that I didn't know what to say. I made some automatic reply, and he left. I sat down in the cool darkness of the box to rest, for I was feeling very seedy. My head went round and round—touch of the sun, I dare say, or that foul air in the crowded subway car. I was still there when they came back, an hour later, for the afternoon rehearsal. I tried to talk to Sylvia about it, but all she would say was that I ought to go to a doctor.”
“I think she's right,” I said. “Look here, have you had any sleep lately?”
“You seem to have forgotten Dunbar's line,” he said. “'There'll be 'plenty of time to sleep by and bye.'”
“For God's sake forget about Dunbar,” I said. “Man, dear, you're on the tip of a nervous breakdown. Now listen. This is Friday. Dress rehearsal to-morrow. Sunday you'll have all day off. Take Miss Cunningham and go away into the country somewhere and rest. Put the damned play out of your mind and give her a good time. You both need it.”
I didn't see him again until Monday morning.
I went up to Providence on the train with the company. As I passed through one of the Pullmans looking for a seat in a smoking compartment, I found Miss Cunningham and Edwards sitting in adjoining chairs. To my delight, they seemed very cheerful, and smiled up at me charmingly.
“Took your advice yesterday,” he said. “We went down to Long Beach again. Had a lovely day, not even a pickpocket to spoil it.”
“What an unfortunate remark!” said Sylvia, laughing. “He means, not a pickpocket to bring us a friend in need and give us a jolly evening in Jamaica.”
“I spoke the speech trippingly,” he admitted.
“And we left Dunbar behind!” said Sylvia. She flashed me a grateful little look that showed she knew I had tried to help.