“That’s damned funny,” Reben growled. Slapping the receiver on the hook, he went to the cigar-stand, fuming, and bought a big black cigar to bite on.
When plays are failures one’s friends avoid one. When plays are successes strangers crowd forward with congratulations. The cigar girl said to the angry manager, who had given her free tickets the night before; “That’s a lovely show, Mr. Reben. I had a lovely time, and Miss Kemble is simpully love-la.”
A stranger who was poking a cheap cigar into the general chopper spoke in: “I was there last night, too—me and the wife. You the manager?”
Reben nodded impatiently.
The stranger went on: “That’s a great little star you got there—Miss Kemble—or Mrs. Winfield, I suppose I’d ought to say.”
Reben looked his surprise. “Mrs. Winfield?”
“Yes. She’s stopping at our hotel with her husband. Right nice-lookin’ feller. Actor, too, I s’pose? I’m on here buying furniture. I always stop at the Emerton. Right nice hotel. Prices reasonable; food fair to middlin’. Has she been married long?”
But Reben had moved off. He was in a mood to believe any bad rumor. This, being the worst news imaginable, sounded true. He felt queasy with business disgust and with plain old-fashioned moral shock. He rushed for the telephone-booth and clawed at the book till he found the number of the Emerton Hotel. He was puffing with anxious wrath.
When Winfield answered, Reben almost collapsed. While he waited he took his temper under control. When he heard Sheila’s voice quivering with all the guilt in the world he mumbled, quietly:
“Oh, Sheila, I’d like to have a word with you.”