Bonnie May did not wait for him to finish; indeed, he seemed to have difficulty about finishing. “Mr. Baggot has called,” she said. “It’s about a play.” She was breathing uneasily. “And couldn’t I sit with you and listen, please?” she added.
“Oh! Baggot! Baggot is one of my crosses, Bonnie May. Couldn’t you shut the door in his face? It would be quite proper. He is one of those silly fellows who think they are destined to write great plays. Couldn’t you go down and put him out?”
She looked at him steadily without a word. She was smiling a little scornfully.
“Very well. Suppose you go and ask him to come up—this time.”
“And—do let me come too! They’ve often let me listen when new plays were being read.”
“Such wanton cruelty!” He shook his head slowly, as if it were quite incredible. “Oh, well you may come, too,” he added.
Mrs. Baron glanced up from her book again when Bonnie May and Baggot passed through the room. She spoke to Baggot in the most casual manner. Bonnie May concluded that he must be a somewhat frequent visitor. Mrs. Baron was quite frank in her indifference to him. “I think you’ll find Victor in the library,” she said. She glanced pointedly at the manuscript in his hand and frowned. “And would you mind closing the door when you go in?”
Mrs. Baron achieved her cruelties sometimes with such a naïve directness that they seemed to many people like a kind of high breeding.
Baggot stepped gingerly into the next room, followed eagerly by Bonnie May. He was closing the door softly when Baron greeted him.
“Hello, Baggot. Done something great again, of course?”