"Mat! Mat!" shrieked Malachi, across the tragic silence.
A month later—on a Friday afternoon—Sam Rubin stopped his limousine before a handsome apartment building and got out briskly. Under his arm was a portfolio. He rushed toward the entrance and popped into the elevator. As he was a privileged character, the maid Sarah admitted him at once and indicated that her mistress was in the living-room.
Rubin stepped jauntily along the corridor, but he stopped at the door. By one window he saw the star's mother. She was knitting, but her glance was directed toward her daughter.
"Sailorman," said Hilda.
"Sailorman," repeated Malachi, soberly, if huskily.
"Husband, lover!"
But Malachi rocked belligerently and fell to grumbling.
"I can't make him say that, mother."
"He has more serious things on his mind," interrupted Rubin, entering.