One fine afternoon, a week later, lonely as a dog that has lost its master, and, like a lost dog, finding all things perplexing in the absence of the Beloved, Annan, wandering along, chanced to pass one of the great Broadway picture-theatres; and noticed Betsy Blythe and Rosalind Shore standing in the lobby.
They always welcomed him with affection. They did so now. Betsy fairly bubbled energy, radiant in the warm sun-rays of success, impatient for further triumphs, excited, gossipy, cordial, voluble.
“I told Albert Smull I wouldn’t renew my contract unless Frank Donnell went with it,” she said. “And I’ve nailed Frank for five more years, Barry,—and my camera-man, too. That is the only way to handle people—tell them exactly where they get off. And off they’ll get every time!”
“I’d like,” remarked Rosalind lazily, “to see anybody handle Mom that way.”
“What are you going to do next season?” inquired Annan without much curiosity.
“Sing a little song in a punk little play, for that’s where I belong and that’s my little lay.”
“She’s got a sure fire comedy,” added Betsy, “and she’s the whole show. She wears practically nothing, by the way. But it’s horribly expensive.”
“Where does it get me?” drawled Rosalind. “I’m fed up. I don’t want to work.”
“What do you want to do?” inquired Annan, amused.
“You’d be surprised.... I’d like to get married and quit.”