“I’m calling myself Melody—”
Brainard’s expression changed suddenly; and he turned away.
“You don’t like it,” she said coaxingly. “But it’s a pretty name!”
“Melody what?” he asked with a touch of sternness.
“Oh, just Melody White—that’s all.”
“But Melody was her name,” he protested.
“I know! You told me so. But that Melody doesn’t exist really; she’s just a name—an idea you have. I took a fancy to it—my dotty point, see? I’m superstitious about it. I want to make this play a great big success, as you made the mine,” she said swiftly. “So don’t be cross with me for making free with your unknown lady love’s first name!”
Brainard smiled in spite of himself at the girl’s insistence on a trivial thing.
“I don’t know why I should object,” he said slowly.
But he realized that even in speaking he did object. It was one thing to ask him for Melody’s sketch, the only memento he had of his mistress, but another to take this liberty with the mythical Melody’s name, and to post it up for the whole world to see on a theatrical billboard. In a moment, however, Brainard’s common sense came back to him.