“Person’d think,” said Parthy, “he was the only juvenile lead left in the world. Matter of fact, I can’t see where he’s such great shakes of an actor. Rolls those eyes of his a good deal, and talks deep-voiced, but he’s got hands white’s a woman’s and fusses with his nails. I’ll wager if you ask around in New Orleans you’ll find something queer, for all he talks so high about being a Ravenal of Tennessee and his folks governors in the old days, and slabs about ’em in the church, and what not. Shifty, that’s what he is. Mark my words.”
“Best juvenile lead ever played the rivers. And I never heard that having clean finger nails hurt an actor any.”
“Oh, it isn’t just clean finger nails,” snapped Parthy. “It’s everything.”
“Wouldn’t hold that against him, either,” roared Doc. The two men then infuriated the humourless Mrs. Hawks by indulging in a great deal of guffawing and knee-slapping.
“That’s right, Hawks. Laugh at your own wife. And you, too, Doc.”
“You ain’t my wife,” retorted Doc, with the privilege of sixty-odd. And roared again.
The gossamer thread that leashed Parthy’s temper dissolved now. “I can’t bear the sight of him. Palavering and soft-soaping. Thinks he can get round a woman my age. Well, I’m worth a dozen of him when it comes to smart.” She leaned closer to Andy, her face actually drawn with fear and a sort of jealousy. “He looks at Magnolia, I tell you.”
“A fool if he didn’t.”
“Andy Hawks, you mean to tell me you’d sit there and see your own daughter married to a worthless tramp of a wharf rat, or worse, that hadn’t a shirt to his back when you picked him up!”
“Oh, God A’mighty, woman, can’t a man look at a girl without having to marry her!”