“Well, I’m not in the firm yet, but my father expects me to step in right away, so that he can step out. He’s not very well. That makes him rather cranky. He didn’t want me to come down here, but I wanted to see Vickery’s play and square myself with you. And I’ve made a mess of that.”
“Oh no! we’re square now, I fancy,” said Sheila.
“Then I ought to be at home,” he sighed.
“Instead of sowing wild oats with actresses,” said Sheila.
“These oats are not very wild,” Winfield grumbled, not quite cured of regret.
“Rather tame, eh?” Sheila laughed. “Well, you’ll find that most actresses are. We’re such harness-broken, heart-broken hacks, most of us, there’s not much excitement left in us. So you’re to be a scale manufacturer. You’re awfully rich, I suppose.”
“When the market’s good, Dad makes a pile of money. When it’s bad—whew! And it’s expensive fighting the trust.”
“Is it anything like the theatrical trust?”
“Is there a theatrical trust?”
“Good heavens! Haven’t you read about the war?”