“Last night I was talking to you about personal affairs. This is business. That was at your home. This is my office. Hop in a cab and come on over. I’ll explain.”
She was in such a daze as she made ready to go that when she had her hat on she could not find it with her hat-pin. Pennock performed the office for her. When she reached Reben’s office she meekly edged through the crowd of applicants waiting like the penniless souls on the wrong side of the River Styx. She thought that Eldon must have been one of these once. Some of these were future Eldons, future Booths.
Joey, the office-boy, hailed her with pride, swung the gate open for her, and led her to Reben’s door. He did that only for stars or managers or playwrights of recent success.
Reben was alone. He was dabbing his mumpsy cheek with a handkerchief he wet at a bottle. He smiled at her with a mixture of apology and rebuke.
“There you are! the suffragette that took my face for a shop window. I told everybody I stumbled and hit my head on the edge of a table. If you will be kind enough not to deny the story—”
“Of course not! I’m so sorry! I lost my head!”
“Thank you. So did I. Last night I made a fool of myself. To-day I’m a business man again. I made you a proposition or two. You declined both with emphasis. I ought not to have insisted. You didn’t have to assassinate me. I’ll forgive you if you’ll forgive me.”
“Of course,” said Sheila, sheepishly.
Reben spoke with great dignity, yet with meekness. “We understand each other better now, eh? I meant what I said about being crazy about you. If you’d let me, I could love you very much. If you won’t, I’ll get over it, I suppose. But the proposition stands. If you would marry me—”
“I’m not going to marry anybody, I tell you.”