“Isn’t that perfectly wonderful,” rhapsodized the pie editor. “What did dear Madame Stephano say when you spoke to her over the phone?”
Jimmy paused for a moment before he replied. He had caught a glimpse of the Star’s dramatic editor who had turned and was approaching them. He clutched Tom Wilson’s arm.
“What did she say,” he said abstractedly. “What did she say? Why she said—she said she’d turn down a Drama League luncheon and go right out in the kitchen and slip into a gingham apron, and believe me if you knew how much she thinks of the Drama League, you’d know that was some concession.”
E. Cartwright hadn’t seen them yet. He was apparently almost oblivious of his surroundings as he walked slowly towards Miss Slosson.
“I realize that,” the pie editor was saying. “She has a great, big, generous nature, I’m sure and to think of her being so domesticated, too. Oh, Mr. Martin, I suppose you know Mr. Jenkins, our dramatic editor. He’s kindly volunteered to help me in the closing hours of the contest.”
Jimmy straightened up and assumed his most ingratiating smile. He had met the distinguished critic only once, several years before, and he was fairly certain that he would not be remembered.
“I had the honor of an introduction several seasons ago,” he said suavely, “but it is possible that Mr. Jenkins does not recall me.”
E. Cartwright had given an unconscious start at the sound of the name “Martin,” but he seemed to have no conscious knowledge of Jimmy’s identity. He smiled sadly.
“I don’t seem to place you,” he remarked with a woebegone attempt at civility.
“Mr. Martin is Madame Stephano’s advance manager,” broke in Miss Slosson. “The dear madame has entered a pie in our little contest through him.”