Mr Pilkington forced his wandering attention to grapple with the problem.
“‘I hear’,” he suggested at length.
“Tchah!” ejaculated his aunt. Then her face brightened. “I have it. Take dictation, please, Miss Frisby. ‘A little bird whispers to me that there were great doings last night on the stage of the Gotham Theatre after the curtain had fallen on “The Rose of America” which, as everybody knows, is the work of Mrs Peagrim’s clever young nephew, Otis Pilkington.’” Mrs Peagrim shot a glance at her clever young nephew, to see how he appreciated the boost, but Otis’ thoughts were far away once more. He was lying on his spine, brooding, brooding. Mrs Peagrim resumed her dictation. “‘In honor of the extraordinary success of the piece, Mrs Peagrim, who certainly does nothing by halves, entertained the entire company to a supper-dance after the performance. A number of prominent people were among the guests, and Mrs Peagrim was a radiant and vivacious hostess. She has never looked more charming. The high jinks were kept up to an advanced hour, and every one agreed that they had never spent a more delightful evening.’ There! Type as many copies as are necessary, Miss Frisby, and send them out this afternoon with photographs.”
Miss Frisby having vanished in her pallid way, the radiant and vivacious hostess turned on her nephew again.
“I must say, Otie,” she began complainingly, “that, for a man who has had a success like yours, you are not very cheerful. I should have thought the notices of the piece would have made you the happiest man in New York.”
There was once a melodrama where the child of the persecuted heroine used to dissolve the gallery in tears by saying “Happiness? What is happiness, moth-aw?” Mr Pilkington did not use these actual words, but he reproduced the stricken infant’s tone with great fidelity.
“Notices! What are notices to me?”
“Oh, don’t be so affected!” cried Mrs Peagrim. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know every word of them by heart!”
“I have not seen the notices, Aunt Olive,” said Mr Pilkington dully.
Mrs Peagrim looked at him with positive alarm. She had never been overwhelmingly attached to her long nephew, but since his rise to fame something resembling affection had sprung up in her, and his attitude now disturbed her.