“By writing a little check once a month.”
“That won’t be necessary. So far as the expense is concerned that will scarcely be worth considering.”
“Nonsense! You could use it, if only for extra dresses and trinkets. I’ve no doubt she’ll want a lot of things.”
That was exactly like a theatrical man’s ideas, Baron thought. But he couldn’t tell Thornburg that his mother would be sure to oppose anything that would tend to promote childish vanity, especially in the case of one who was already inclined to overestimate mere appearances. The gewgaws of the average petted and spoiled child would have to give place to simplicity and true childishness. Still, he didn’t wish to offend Thornburg, whose suggestion had doubtless been based upon a generous impulse.
“It might be managed,” he said. “We’ll speak of that another time.”
He arose and began to shape a casual exit. “There’s nobody now to take their places,” he said, indicating the portraits of Jefferson and Booth and the others.
“Not by a thousand miles,” agreed Thornburg. His thoughts seemed to have been transferred easily to the players who were gone.
But when Baron emerged from the theatre and lost himself in the throng which the fine May forenoon had attracted from hotels and side streets, his face brightened with the joy which he felt he need no longer conceal.
“She’s ours!” were the words that sang within him. “We’re going to keep her!”