She was leaning across the table, her hands clasping its edge, her small, plump face even pinker.
He threw out his legs beneath the table and sat back, hands deep in pockets, and a toothpick hanging limp from between lips that were sagging.
"Gad! if I had my life to live over again as a salaried man, I'd—I'd hang myself first! The way to start a boy to a million dollars in this business is to start him young in the producing-end of a strong firm."
"You—got faith in this Goldfinch & Goetz failure like you had in
'Pan-America' and 'The Chaperon,' Harry?"
"I said it five years ago and it come to pass. I say it now. For want of a few dirty dollars I'm a poor man till I die."
"How—many dollars, Harry?"
"Don't make me say it, Millie—it makes me sick to my stummick. Three thousand dollars would buy the whole spectacle to save it from the storehouse. I tried Charley Ryan—he wouldn't risk a ten-spot on a failure."
"Harry, I—oh, Harry—"
"Why, mother, what's the matter? You been overworking again, ironing my shirts and collars when they ought to go to the laundry? You—"
"Harry, what would you say if—if I was to tell you something?"