Kedzie liked this last touch immensely. It would make up for that disgusting guestless ceremony in the Municipal Building.
Ferriday got rid of her exquisitely by writing a note and saying to her:
“Now you run down and hop into my car and take this note to Lady Powell-Carewe—don't fail to call her 'Pole Cary.' She is to design your wealthy wardrobe, and I want her to study you and do something unheard of in novelty and beauty. Tell her that the more she spends the better I'll like it.”
Kedzie was really a heroine. She did not swoon even at that.
When Ferriday dismissed her he enfolded her to his beautiful waistcoat, and then held her off by her two arms and said:
“Little girl, you've made me so happy! So happy! Ah! We'll do great things together! This is a red-letter day for the movie art.”
Kedzie never feared that it might have a scarlet-letter significance. She forgot that she was anything but a newborn, full-fledged angel without a past—only a future with the sky for its limit. Alas! we always have our pasts. Even the unborn babe has already centuries of a past.
It was Ferriday who brought Kedzie home to hers.
“What about dinner to-night, my dear? I feel like having a wonderful dinner to-night! Are partridge in season now? What is your favorite sherry? Let me call for you at, say, seven. Where shall I call?”
Kedzie flopped back from the empyrean to her flat. Gilfoyle again blockaded her.