“What’s the good of talking?” said Lily. “He’s miserable. He worships me. He drinks to forget. He told me so himself!”
“But they say he’s married,” said Jimmy. “Why ...”
“It’s mean and jealous of you to say that,” said Lily, suddenly withdrawing her hands. “You deserve a smacking! How can he be married, when he wants to marry me?”
And with that she left him and went up to the dressing-room.
Jimmy was heartbroken.
“It’s a joke of Lily’s ... as in my shop, some months ago, when she pretended to have a sweetheart, though she hadn’t!”
But, argue as he would, Jimmy thought with terror of Trampy’s habits of conquest, of his reputation in the profession as a Don Juan. He bitterly regretted waiting so long to speak to Lily. He had thought that he was pleasing her by keeping in the background, for fear of causing her annoyance at home: was his sole offense now that of coming too late?
Oh, if he had only had evidence to hand! But Trampy’s marriage was one of those vague rumors. One could say nothing for certain. However, the danger, no doubt, was not yet imminent. And Jimmy had a friend who was doing America in the theaters of the Eastern and Western Trust: he resolved to write to him; the friend would receive his letter at the Majestic, Houston, Texas, or at the Denver Orpheum. The thing had happened over there; they would probably remember it in the theaters he passed through; he could make inquiries, perhaps even obtain proofs. That exquisite Lily, that masterpiece of grace: what a darling wife she would make! And all for Trampy! Jimmy was determined to do everything to prevent it.
He did not despair of supplying Lily, before long, with the proof that Trampy was married; he would give the name, the date; he would compel Trampy to admit it. But he was not sure enough yet to accuse him openly: Lily would have seen nothing in it but a ridiculous jealousy and would never have forgiven him.
Then Jimmy was worried: people came to him for this, for that, for the thousand details of the stage.