“To shift the subject of discourse—that girl, Thessalie Dunois,” began Westmore, in his energetic way, “is about the cleverest and prettiest woman I’ve seen in New York outside the theatre district.”
“I met her in France,” said Barres, carelessly. “She really is wonderfully clever.”
“I shall let her talk to me,” drawled Esmé, flicking at his cigarette. “It will be a liberal education for her.”
Mandel’s slow, oriental eyes blinked contempt; he 144 caressed his waxed moustache with nicotine-stained fingers:
“I am going to direct an out-of-door spectacle—a sort of play—not named yet—up your way, Barres—at Northbrook. It’s for the Belgians.... If Miss Dunois—unless,” he added sardonically, “you have her reserved, also——”
“Nonsense! You cast Thessalie Dunois and she’ll make your show for you, Mandel!” exclaimed Barres. “I know and I’m telling you. Don’t make any mistake: there’s a girl who can make good!”
“Oh. Is she a professional?”
It was on the tip of Barres’s tongue to say “Rather!” But he checked himself, not knowing Thessalie’s wishes concerning details of her incognito.
“Talk to her about it,” he said, rising.
The others laid aside cigars and followed him into the studio, where already the gramophone was going and Aristocrates and Selinda were rolling up the rugs.