“Lord!” the young Mæcenus groaned, “I didn’t know that, Ned.”
“There’s a good deal you don’t know about America and Americans that you’ll have to learn, if you want to make good in this thing,” the secretary commented severely. “That’s what you need me for—to open your eyes.”
“Thanks,” Brainard murmured humbly.
“You will find Mrs. Donnie Pearmain the very one to give the right cachet to the movement.”
The young man rather prided himself on his social knowingness acquired since his return to New York. Brainard sighed, and, with a grimace, resigned himself to Mrs. Donnie Pearmain. The secretary proceeded to prepare his master for the coming luncheon.
“You know what she did for the half orphans last year? The year before it was the tuberculosis campaign. But now she’s giving up mere charity for art, and ours is the very thing to interest her. The Rev. Thomson Spicer will be there.”
“The clergy, too!”
“Of course. They make the next best publicity agents after the newspapers. They preach about popular movements, you know. You’ll see what Spicer will do for us next Sunday. He’s much interested in the moral influence of the theater upon the masses.”
Brainard groaned.
“President Nathaniel Butterfield of Eureka University has also promised to be there.”