“Of course I know I’ve got nothing to do with the giving out of parts, but if I had, he’d strike me just right for the rôle of the husband.”
Miss Baron flushed. She knew just whom the child meant, but she felt that she must pretend to some measure of doubt.
“What in the world are you talking about?” she asked. Her faint smile robbed her words of sharpness.
“I think he’s just the kind that would look well to the people in the gallery, and to the people down in the parquet, too. Mr. Addis.”
Flora sat down in an aimless fashion, holding the green-and-silver skirt across her knees.
“Do you think,” she asked meditatively, “that he would look well—anywhere?”
“Do you mean, do I think he would look—ridic’lous, anywhere?”
Miss Baron leaned back and looked with a sort of mournful joyousness at the ceiling. “You do say such amazing things!” she declared. “To use your word, You don’t think he would look ridiculous anywhere?”
“Never in the world!” was the emphatic response.
“But you know he isn’t at all like—well, like the leading men in plays, for example.”