He stared gravely into her shadowed face. “Is that good advertising, too,” he asked quietly—“to show marked preference to a man of Arkroyd’s calibre and reputation?”
Alison laughed. “You’re delicious when you’re jealous, Staff,” said she. “No; it isn’t advertising—it’s discipline.”
“Discipline?”
“Just that. I’m punishing you for your obstinacy about the play. You’ll see, my dear,” she taunted him: “I’m going to have my own way or make your life perfectly miserable.”
Before he could invent an adequate retort, the beautiful Mr. Bangs came tripping across the deck, elation in his manner.
“Ah, there you are, Miss Landis! My dance, you know. Been looking everywhere for you.”
“So sorry: I was just coming down.”
Alison caught up the demi-train of her gown, but paused an instant longer, staring Staff full in the face, her air taunting and provocative.
“Think it over, Staff,” she advised in a cool, metallic voice; and dropping her hand on Bangs’ arm, moved languidly away.
Staff did think it over, if with surprisingly little satisfaction to himself. It wasn’t possible to ignore the patent fact that Alison had determined to make him come to heel. That apparently was the only attitude possible for one who aspired to the post of first playwright-in-waiting and husband-in-ordinary to the first actress in the land. He doubted his ability to supple his back to the requisite degree. Even for the woman he loved.... Or did he?... Through the wraith-like mists of fading illusions he caught disturbing glimpses—dark shapes of lurking doubts.