“Have you decided where to spend the honeymoon?” I asked, greatly pleased to see them so happy.
“Hush!” she said. “We'll wait till we see what sort of notices the show gets.”
“Think of the poor press agent. I've used up all my dope. Get spliced while we're in Providence and it'll give me a nice little story. You know the kind of thing—'Critics' Praise Brings Pair to Altar; Press Clippings Cupid's Aid'.”
“You're getting as vulgar as a regular press agent,” she said, merrily. “They don't think of anything except in terms of good stories for the paper.”
“Oh,” I said, “the press agent has his tragedies, too. Think how many stories he knows that he can't tell.”
I felt that this remark was not very happily inspired, and went on through the car calling myself a clumsy idiot. In the smoking compartment, as luck would have it, were both Upton and Fagan, smoking huge cigars and talking together. I sat down and lit my pipe. Fagan, in his usual way, was trying to impress Upton with his own sagacity. There was another musical horror of Upton's scheduled to begin rehearsal shortly, and probably Fagan was hoping to land the job as director.
“What did you think of Edwards at the dress rehearsal?” said Fagan.
Upton grunted. He had a way of retaining his ideas until others had committed themselves.
“I've been telling you right along, he's impossible,” said Fagan. “No one can work with him. He's too damned upstage. Now I got Billy Mitford to promise he'd run up and see the opening. Billy is the man you need for that part. I had him in at the dress, and he'll be there tonight. I've given him a line on the part, and if Edwards falls down we can start rehearsing Billy right away. He could get set in a week, and open with the show in New York.”
“Four hundred a week,” was Upton's comment, seemingly addressed to the end of his cigar.