“Yes, I have thought a good deal about Louisiana since last night,” Brainard admitted.
It had occurred to him possibly in the course of this thought that the secretary’s growing intimacy with the girl was not altogether advantageous. His nature was too generous, however, to entertain this consideration seriously. The idea of rivalry between them for the girl’s interest was too ridiculous to be thought of, and yet he was forced to recognize in himself a trace of that subtle sex jealousy that seems inevitable wherever two men are concerned with one woman, no matter how trivial the occasion. He put it summarily out of his head.
“She won’t be away for always, Ned,” he observed good-naturedly. “And we must give the girl her chance—it’s the least we can do after encouraging her to come on here and join our organization, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” the secretary agreed more cordially.
When Brainard told MacNaughton of his purpose, the old actor expressed an unfeigned and unflattering surprise.
“What do you want to turn that silly’s little head for?” he roared, flourishing his cigar. “Send her abroad to study! You’d much better send her to a grammar school or a young lady’s fem sem where she could learn ordinary deportment. She’ll never make an actress.”
“I don’t agree with you,” Brainard replied quickly. “She’s the best we’ve got already.”
Farson watched the two with an amused smile. The old actor shrugged his shoulders in mute disgust.
“It isn’t saying much either,” the patron of the People’s Theater continued somewhat tartly. “Cordelia wasn’t the worst that happened last night by any means.”
“My God!” the Scotsman groaned fervently. “I hope nothing as bad will ever happen to me again in this life.”