“To who,” Kedzie began, with an owl-like effect that she corrected with some confusion,”—to whom do you refer to?”
Ferriday grinned: “You're going to marry out of the movies, and you're going to try to horn into sassiety. Well, I warned you before that if you became Dyckman's wife you would find his world vastly different from the ballroom and drawing-room stuff you pull off in the studio—strangely and mysteriously different.”
He frightened her. She was not sure of herself. She could not forget Nimrim, Missouri, and her arrival at the edge of society via the Bronx, the candy-shop, and the professional camera.
She felt that the world had not treated her squarely. Why should she have to carry all this luggage of her past through the gate with her? She wondered if it would not be better to linger in the studios till she grew more famous and could bring a little prestige along.
But Ferriday was already ousting her even from that security.
“The managers of the Hyperfilm Company will think you have done them dirt, but I'll explain that you are not really responsible. You've seen a million dollars, and you're razzle-dazzled. They'll want a bit of that million, I suppose, as liquidated damages, but I'll try to keep them down.”
Kedzie was at bay in her terror. She struck back.
“Tell 'em they won't get a cent if they try to play the hog.”
“They don't have hogs on Fifth Avenue, Anita. Don't forget that. Well, good-by and good luck.”
This was more like an eviction than a desertion. Kedzie felt a little softening of her heart toward the old homestead.