Now, Ruth had never seen Dolly Derwent, and looking at Terry Riordan she suddenly decided to drop pretence.
“I’ve never seen her,” she admitted, “and while I suppose your songs are awfully clever and funny, I don’t know anything about the stage and half the time I don’t know what you’re all talking about. You see I haven’t been in New York long and I spend most of my time at the Art Students’ League and I’m afraid I’m not much good as a critic.”
For a few moments Terry did not answer. He just looked at her, smiling. His smile diffused a warm glow all round her heart as if he were telling her that he understood all about her and rather admired her for not understanding all the stage patter.
“Suppose you show me your sketches. I don’t know any more about art than you do about the stage, so then we’ll be even,” he said.
“There’s nothing here that would interest you—just studies from the life class.”
“I say there’s an idea for a number—chorus of art students in smocks and artists’ caps and a girl with an awfully good figure on a model throne—no, that’s been used. Still there ought to be some sort of an original variation of the theme.” He took out his notebook and wrote something in it.
“Shall I bring tea, Miss Ruth?”
George was standing in the doorway, having appeared suddenly from nowhere.
“Yes, thank you, George—”
“Perhaps if we go on just as if we weren’t waiting for Gloria, she’ll come.”