“Whatever it is——”
“Woollcott started it, anyway,” protested Magnolia Ravenal, lighting her cigarette. “I should think a man who’s dramatic critic of the New York World would have more consideration for the dignity of his——”
Cameron took up the story. “Our seats turned out to be next to his. Nola sat between us. You know how she always clutches somebody’s hand during the emotional scenes.”
“The last time I went to the theatre with Woollcott he said he’d slap my hands hard if I ever again——” put in Magnolia. But Cameron once more interrupted.
“Then in the second act she clutched him instead of me and he slapped her hand——”
“And pinched——”
“And Nola gave him a sharp dig in the stomach, I’m afraid, with her elbow, and there was quite a commotion. Mothers-in-law are a terrible responsibility.”
“Mother dear! A first night of a Shaw revival at the National!”
“He started it. And anyway, you’ve brought me up wrong.”
There was about her suddenly a curious effect of weariness. It was as though, until now, she had been acting, and had discarded her rôle. She stood up. “Ken, if you’ll get me a taxi I’ll run along home. I’m tired. You two are going to the Swopes’, aren’t you? That means three o’clock.”