She smiled indulgently. “The idea! I mean, anybody would be interested in it.”
“What’s it about?” challenged Baron.
“A lady who died because they were unkind to her—even the people who loved her. It’s about a lot of snobs and a—a human being.” She spoke with feeling. She sensed the fact that again she was being required to stand alone.
Baron frowned. “How in the world did you find out anything about a play like that?”
“Miss Barry did it in Denver one time—when she was with a stock company. I can’t understand why you speak as if there was something wrong about it. I think it’s great. You can cry like anything when you see it—because it seems as if what happens couldn’t have been helped. It isn’t one of those things that’s been screwed around to make everybody feel as if they’d been eating caramels. You remember it!”
Baron, Sr., engaged in carving the roast, twinkled somewhat darkly.
“You might get her to shape your criticism for you, Victor,” he suggested.
“I don’t know if the editor would stand for ‘screwed around,’” said Baron, “but upon my soul, I think she’s right.”
“Well, don’t you think you could take me, then?” asked Bonnie May.
“It really isn’t possible. You see, I must hurry down to the office right after the performance—to write it, you know.”