Turning, Banneker met the cynical and near-sighted eyes of Gurney, The Ledger’s dramatic critic, with whom he had merely a nodding acquaintance, as Gurney seldom visited the office except at off-hours.
“Yes; I’d like to,” he answered.
“Little Betty spotted you and has been demanding that the management bring you back for inspection.”
“The play is a big success, isn’t it?”
“I give it a year’s run,” returned the critic authoritatively. “Laurence has written it to fit Raleigh like a glove. She’s all they said of her in London. And when she left here a year ago, she was just a fairly good ingénue. However, she’s got brains, which is the next best thing in the theatrical game to marriage with the manager—or near-marriage.”
Banneker, considering Gurney’s crow-footed and tired leer, decided that he did not like the critic much.
Back-of-curtain after a successful opening provides a hectic and scrambled scene to the unaccustomed eye. Hastily presented to a few people, Banneker drifted to one side and, seating himself on a wire chair, contentedly assumed the role of onlooker. The air was full of laughter and greetings and kisses; light-hearted, offhand, gratulatory kisses which appeared to be the natural currency of felicitation. Betty Raleigh, lovely, flushed, and athrill with nervous exaltation, flung him a smile as she passed, one hand hooked in the arm of her leading man.
“You’re coming to supper with us later,” she called.
“Am I?” said Banneker.
“Of course. I’ve got something to ask you.” She spoke as one expectant of unquestioning obedience: this was her night of glory and power.