The manager sank back. "You sailors! I thought maybe a submarine was loose outside!" He was going to add a sting, when a boot came into contact with his shin, a sign that the alert press agent had something on his mind. "Flowers!"
"I have come ten thousand miles to send these flowers," replied Mathison, smiling.
"Get a head usher, Klein," said the manager, secretly bubbling. What a humdinger for the morning papers! As the press agent vanished, Rubin turned to Mathison. "You may send flowers, but not across the lights. I will not break that rule for anybody."
"So long as she gets them. May I write a note?"
The manager got up and indicated his chair. "Write as many as you like. I take it that the flowers are for Miss Farrington."
"They are."
"Do you know her?" curiously.
"I do." The smile was still on Mathison's lips.
"In that case, go ahead. But if it happens that she doesn't recall you, your posies will go directly to the ash-can. She isn't easy to know."