“Do you know Gene Zucker?”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s a worm. A fat, wiggly, soft worm from Boston. But he’s got an idea.”
“And that is?”
“I’ll tell you in a moment.” She leaned forward fixing him with the honest clarity of her eyes. “Ban, if I tell you that I’m really devoted to my art, that I believe in it as—as a mission, that the theater is as big a thing to me as The Patriot is to you, you won’t think me an affected little prig, will you?”
“Of course not, Betty. I know you.”
“Yes. I think you do. But you don’t know your own paper. Zucker’s big idea, which he sold to Tertius Marrineal together with his precious self, is that the dramatic critic should be the same identical person as the assistant advertising manager in charge of theater advertising, and that Zucker should be both.”
“Hell!” snapped Banneker. “I beg your pardon, Betty.”
“Don’t. I quite agree with you. Isn’t it complete and perfect? Zucker gets his percentage of the advertising revenue which he brings in from the theaters. Therefore, will he be kind to those attractions which advertise liberally? And less kind to those which fail to appreciate The Patriot as a medium? I know that he will! Pay your dollar and get your puff. Dramatic criticism strictly up to date.”
Banneker looked at her searchingly. “Is that why you broke with Marrineal, Betty?”