“No, the only real bond between us is a mutual love of Roquefort salad dressing,” he sighed. “Her idea of art is to be undressed quite halfway down her back and to fall on my neck in limp giggles.”
“Why do you have her then?” Thurley asked seriously.
“Youth, my child—she is a lovely, young thing, pink and white, straight, slim, very good to gaze upon—and she knows it. She can wear a wrap consisting of four flounces of purple chiffon and a strip of rose satin and make the audience stare at her impudent, untalented little self while they listen to my lines! The combination lets my wrinkles, humped back and cantankerous joints slip by unheeded. That is a penalty we pay for growing old. Never mind, Thurley, you’ve years in which to revel in having both talent and youth—divine combination!” Sam’s bright eyes grew moody, he was remembering, as Thurley rightly guessed, the wonderful, golden years in London when he was Romeo in appearance as in voice and passion, when he was dark eyed, melancholy young Hamlet and the critics gently insinuated that as King Lear he was a trifle youngish although his makeup was superb! Those were the years when people loved his Shakespeare because his youth illumined it and he passed by with proper scorn the smart comedies requiring a morning garden backdrop, a duel in the library and leading ladies who were possessed of more dimples than brains.
“Why don’t you play old rôles?” Thurley demanded innocently, Polly smothering a giggle.
“She doesn’t appreciate my romantic little heart and notions, does she? Let her see me a swashbuckling hero in hip boots and a green plumed bonnet while my black charger is led across the stage by bribes of sugar—then she’ll understand.”
“No, she can’t understand, Sam dear, until she has reached the matronly age and still wants to do Juliet and Senta and managers try to show her the error of her ways—and figure!”
Thurley looked up at her new friend to wonder what form the ooze took with him. But he good-naturedly patted her cheek, saying much to her relief:
“I see you are human and not going to ask me to recite ‘Gunga Din.’ I return the compliment by not demanding that you tear off Tosti’s ‘Good-by.’ I only ran in to welcome you to our circle and to tell you, as senior member, a few facts about the others. They will tell you about me fast enough—”
“Never happy unless he has a breach of promise suit waiting for him in the morning’s mail,” promptly supplemented Polly. “Always has it rumored he is to marry a prominent whiskey dealer’s widow—sells his mash notes per pound to Caleb, owns a hothouse of gardenias and has them shipped all over the map—at heart a flinty old bachelor warrior—a splendid, precious, cross pal—a jewel of an actor who makes you laugh and cry as easily as you breathe.”
“There is a young woman,” said Sam calmly, pointing an accusing finger, “who will never write grand opera—never! Watch how pale she grows. But she will do something heroic, has all the salamander qualities with none of their viciousness. Would snatch a funeral wreath right off a door to make a present to some one she loved, very whippy temperament, believes that bothering over one’s soul is an emotional luxury, must have had an antique little romance back somewhere. Where did you come from, Polly, anyhow? Sort of neighborhood, I fancy, where the prevailing fashion was to have your great-aunt’s deceased poodles stuffed and mounted to preside over dark, chilly parlors.... Of course, Polly jumped the stockade and landed among us—a forlorn child with squeaky shoes, as I remember her. She’s as proud as Punch and stubborn as a bull terrier, so we let her starve knowing that sometime or other she is going to bump smack into Fame and he’ll never let go of her. But not grand opera, Polly girl.”