The effects of her last shot were wearing off. He laughed good-naturedly.
“Really,” he insisted; “on the level, I’ve got the best news you’ve heard in moons.”
“Well?” she asked wearily.
“Old Battle-Ax has got her divorce,” he announced, referring thus affectionately to his wife.
“Well,” said the girl, “that’s good news—for her—if it’s true.”
Crumb frowned.
“It’s good news for you,” he said. “It means that I can marry you now.”
The girl leaned back on the piano bench and laughed aloud. It was not a pleasant laugh. She laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks.
“What is there funny about that?” growled the man. “It would mean a lot to you—respectability, for one thing, and success, for another. The day you become Mrs. Wilson Crumb I’ll star you in the greatest picture that was ever made.”
“Respectability!” she sneered. “Your name would make me respectable, would it? It would be the insult added to all the injury you have done me. And as for starring—poof!” She snapped her fingers. “I have but one ambition, thanks to you, you dirty hound, and that is snow!” She leaned toward him, her two clenched fists almost shaking in his face. “Give me all the snow I need,” she cried, “and the rest of them may have their fame and their laurels!”