“Sometimes.”
Mr. Bernstein elevated his brows. He looked at Fanchon, and his face changed and glowed with appreciation.
“Guess you go, madam,” he said in a confident tone, “a lady of your talent! Excuse me”—he bowed first to one and then the other—“if you’ll permit me, I’ll sit down. I’ve got a word to say—business, you know, strictly business.”
Fanchon’s eyes danced. She threw a mocking look at William’s stiffening face.
“Sit down, Mr. Bernstein,” she said sweetly. “Voilà! I love the movies!”
“There!” Bernstein beamed, drawing up a chair. “I knew a lady of your talent must love ’em.” He waved his hand gracefully, speaking to William now, but including William’s wife. “I want to say, sir, that I witnessed that dance to-night, and—well, sir, it hit me straight in the bull’s-eye! Never saw it better done—never! I congratulate Mrs. Carter, sir, and I congratulate you. It was a gem!”
William, very red, inclined his head stiffly, but Fanchon was radiant with smiles.
“Merci du compliment!” she murmured.
“Eh? Oh, you’re French, ain’t you?” Mr. Bernstein returned her smile genially. “Corwin was telling me you were Mamselle Fonchon lay Fare. That would sound a top-liner, too, on a bill-board. Corwin—you know him? Yes? Well, he’s running a vaudeville show somewhere now, besides that hairy piano man, and he wants you in his show. I suspicioned that right off.”
“My wife isn’t a show-woman!” thundered William, his brow black.