“She hungers for some of life’s goodies.” Hollinger resumed his musing, ignoring Brainard’s reply. “But comparatively little would satisfy her—a secure home somewhere in southern California for herself and that tough relic of a parent, a little income, enough to assure permanent idleness. Consider what a boon that would be to the stage in itself! Possibly matrimony later on, why not? . . . As Krutzmacht’s residuary—er, trustee,—that’s what you called it, I believe, you ought to provide decently for his emotional lapses. . . . I put it to you now as a Sentimentalist, Idealist, Lover of Great Ideas.”
“You would talk me into giving her everything I have,” Brainard laughed, “if I could only once bring myself to accept your point of view.”
“That life is merely a juggle of words.”
“Ah, you are too young. One cannot fight successfully against youth, even with ideas!”
Miss Walters appeared, followed by Farson, and the conversation was at an end. The actress looked at Brainard from beneath her flaring hat, and her eyes had an unpleasant luster in them. No, mere charity would not satisfy that “thirst for vengeance upon life!”
“Well, Mr. Wilkins,” she began with a heavy effort at irony, “it is always sad for old friends to part. But in this case we may hope to meet again before long.”
“I hope so!” Brainard replied politely. “Let me put you into the cab.”
Hollinger followed them slowly down the steps. At the very door of the cab he lingered.
“In that brief visit which you made to the Coast did you ever come across a rattler in operation? No! It makes a slight, but perfectly clear noise first by way of warning—and then it strikes! Some women resemble the rattler. Look out for the sting!”