The press agent took out a lead pencil and began underscoring the name of his star every time it appeared in both his letter and the dramatic editor’s subjoined comment.
“Fourteen times,” he chuckled to himself. “The poor old boob.”
He stuck his derby on his head a bit rakishly, reached for a silver topped walking stick and started a progress down to the lobby that was a continuous round of cheery greetings. He joked with the chambermaid he saw entering the room next his own; exchanged a bit of badinage with another who was loitering near the elevator, and playfully slapped the elevator boy on the back with his folded newspaper. He maintained this exalted mood throughout breakfast during which meal he again counted over the “Madame Stephanos” on the sixth page to see if he’d made a mistake in his previous reckoning.
After breakfast he strolled out into the lobby again and over to the cigar counter. As he pointed to a box in the case marked “50¢” each, he beamed at the slender blonde who was reaching to serve him and the blonde beamed back.
“Say, sister,” he asked pleasantly, “how’d you like a couple of seats for the show Monday night at the Standard?”
“Fine,” replied the young woman. “What is it?”
“Olga Stephano,” returned the press agent as he reached for his pass pad and his fountain pen.
“She’s that Russian actress, ain’t she, that plays in those highbrow plays?”
“That’s right,” replied Jimmy. “Ibsen stuff, but she’s a bear at it. She makes you tremble and she makes you sigh.”
The blonde person took the proffered pass and folded it carefully.