They both said it at once, and then they both laughed. Terry Riordan was very appealing when he laughed. He had risen at her entrance, and was standing loose-limbed yet somehow graceful in his formless tweeds.
“I’ve been waiting at least an hour for her, though it was obvious that George didn’t want me here. He quite overpowered me with big words and proper English to explain why he thought my waiting quite uncalled for.”
“He’s like that, but Gloria is sure to come if you wait long enough,” said Ruth, sinking wearily into a chair and dropping her sketches beside her on the floor.
“Even if she doesn’t I couldn’t find a more comfortable place than this to loaf. I’m too nervous to be any place else in comfort. The show opens tonight. It was all right at the tryout in Stamford, but that doesn’t mean much. I want a cigarette, and George frightened me so that I didn’t dare ask him where they are.”
“Frightened? You, Mr. Riordan?”
“There, you looked like Gloria then. You are relatives, of course, same name and everything, but I never noticed any resemblance before. Suppose you must be distant relatives.”
“Gloria says we must be very distant relatives in order to be close friends,” said Ruth, dodging the invitation to tell the extent of her relationship to Gloria.
“As for the cigarettes, there should be some in the blue Ming jar over there, or, if you prefer, you can roll your own. There’s tobacco in the box—Gloria’s own tobacco.”
“Thanks; I suppose I could have found it myself, but I was actually afraid to look around—George gave me such a wicked look—he did indeed,” said Terry. “What a wonderful woman Gloria Mayfield is,” he continued as he lit a cigarette.
“I know,” said Ruth. “No wonder she has so many friends.”