At any rate everything was spontaneous in her now,—not a trace of self-consciousness in her attitude to him as her benefactor, and all the simplicity and directness of the child which had first touched him.
“He says he’s going to write a piece for the theater and put me in,” Louisiana remarked turning to Brainard. “He’d better let me see it first—I’ll give him a few points most men writers overlook. . . . You’ll keep the theater open until I get back?”
“Longer than that, we hope!” Brainard laughed.
“I want to make my début there—my real début,” she said importantly.
“I promise you we’ll keep it open for that!”
“You’d better fire the whole bunch and start over,” she observed thoughtfully. . . .
At the last moment, when Farson had already gone down the gangway, the girl drew Brainard to one side and uttered the first serious words they had had since their talk in her dressing room the night of Lear.
“It’s no use saying thanks, you know!”
“I don’t want you to thank me.”
“I know you don’t and I’m not—but I want you to know I understand.”