“We’ll have this—this fellow who wrote the play—what’s his name?”
“Truedale.” The woman referred to the manuscript.
“Yes. Truedale. We’ll have him to dinner to-morrow. I’ll get Harrington and Nichols. Where shall we go?”
“There’s a love of a place over on the East Side. They give you such good things to eat—and leave you alone.”
“We’ll go there!”
It was November before the rush and hurry of preparation were over and Truedale’s play announced. His name did not appear on it so his people were not nerve-torn and desperate. Truedale often was, but he managed to hide the worst and suffer in silence. He had outlived the anguish of seeing his offspring amputated, ripped open, and stuffed. He had come to the point where he could hear his sacredest expressions denounced as rot and supplanted by others that made him mentally ill. But in the end he acknowledged, nerve-racked as he was, that the thing of which he had dreamed—the thing he had tried to do—remained intact. His eyes were moist when the curtain fell upon his “Interpretation” at the final rehearsal.
Then he turned his attention to his personal drama. He chose his box; there were to be Lynda and Ann, Brace and Betty, McPherson and himself in it. Betty, Brace, and the doctor were to have the three front chairs—not because of undue humility on the author’s part, but because there would, of course, be a big moment of revelation—a moment when Lynda would know! When that came it would be better to be where curious eyes could not behold them. Perhaps—Truedale was a bit anxious over this—perhaps he might have to take Lynda away after the first act, and before the second began, in order to give her time and opportunity to rally her splendid serenity.
And after the play was over—after he knew how the audience had taken it—there was to be a small supper—just the six of them—and during that he would confess, for better or worse. He would revel in their joy, if success were his, or lean upon their sympathy if Fate proved unkind.
Truedale selected the restaurant, arranged for the flowers, and then grew so rigidly quiet and pale that Lynda declared that the summer in town had all but killed him and insisted that he take a vacation.
“We haven’t had our annual honeymoon trip, Con,” she pleaded; “let’s take it now.”