“Who do you work for?” asked the practical Nancy. “Have you sold anything yet?”
“I had my first act in Cochran’s Revue, the recent one, in London.”
“Oh! Moms and I saw that. Did you see the lovely ballet with the Chinese pagodas on their heads?”
Betsey flushed a little and smiled. “That one was mine. ...”
“Cynthia, she’s good,” Nancy turned enthusiastically to the others. “The stuff was swell. ...”
Betsey continued. They were to be married next week, in Paris, and return to the States, Dad and Robert and she. Betsey had letters of introduction to two or three big theatrical producers in New York and promise of further work with Cochran.
“Grand!” applauded Nancy.
But the trouble, it seemed, was this: Robert didn’t want his wife to continue her work after they were married.
“Oh dear!” murmured Cynthia. Just suppose Chick didn’t want her to keep on with her covers. But then Chick was an artist also; he understood.
“Stop your painting?” asked Nancy, puzzled to understand anyone in a family that didn’t design or illustrate or paint.