“It’s very wonderful,” she said, in her low, pleasant voice. “I shouldn’t have dreamed that even you could do it. It is effective—it does count. The appeal, even at the first glance, is—astonishing.”
“The question is—where has the shop gone?”
This was Miss Lockhart, who was on Mrs. Burns’ other side. All three were in semi-evening dress of a quiet sort; and the evening hour was just before that set for the showing of the posters. Jane Ray had decided against making a public thing of her exhibition; she had argued that that would mean a large crowd and little money. A more exclusive affair, with invitations discreetly extended, ought to fill just comfortably her limited space, and bring the dollars she coveted for her Belgians.
“It isn’t a shop now—it’s a salon,” declared Mrs. Burns. Jane glowed at this—as well she might. Mrs. Burns, with her wealth, her experience of the world, her personality of exceeding charm, knew whereof she spoke. Jane knew well that she could not have found a patroness of her exhibition whose influence could help her more than that of the wife of Red Pepper Burns.
“Yes, that’s the word,” Nan agreed. “Miss Ray has done wonders. The shop has always been a perfectly charming place—as a shop; but to-night it’s a colourful spot to solicit not only the eye but the heart. The pocket-books and purses will fly open—I’m sure of it. And with Doctor Burns to tell us what we must do—— Oh, no doubt but every poster will be sold to-night.”
“I’m not so sure,” Jane said. “They might be, if the prices bid run low. But I don’t want small prices—I want big ones—oh, very big! If people will only understand—and care.”
The shop door opened, and R. P. Burns and Tom Lockhart came in together, both in evening dress. Tom’s face was exultant.
“I got him!” he called. “I put out the office lights, chloroformed the office nurse, hauled him upstairs, drew his bath, and put his clothes upon him—and for a finishing touch, to make all tight, disconnected the telephone. First occasion ever known where he was present at any party before the guests arrived—not to mention being properly dressed!”
Red was laughing. He loomed above the group, every shining red hair in place, his eyes sparkling with eagerness for the fray. Not in a long time had he had a part to play, outside his profession, which suited him so well. Himself war mad from the beginning, impatient a thousand times over at the apathy of his fellow-citizens under the constantly growing needs and demands of the world struggle, he was welcoming the chance to try his hand and voice at warming the cold hearts, firing the imaginations, and reaching the pocket-books thus far mostly shoved deep down in the prosperous pockets. To be here to-night he had worked like a fiend all day to cover his lists of calls, to tie up every possible foreseen demand. At the last moment he had cut half a dozen strings which threatened to bind him, instructed his office to take no calls for him for the coming three hours, and had fled away with Tom, determined for once to do his duty as he saw it, and not as any persistent patient might see it.
“Jolly, but this is a stunning show!” he commented, gazing round him. “What lighting! Why, you must have run wires everywhere, Jane! That fellow in blue on the horse, at the far end, looks as if he were galloping straight out at us. You must have been on a hanging committee at some art gallery some time or other.”