“He got there.”
Mark sighed and rubbed his hair. Everything confused him. He hoped Olive would forgive him for not coming to the station. That had been cowardly. He said, “Ought to have gone along, son.... Afraid I’d say something I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have let you do it alone. This is worse on you than it is on me. I—”
“Mark, on my honour, I’m not in love with Margot!”
He lied so nobly that Mark wondered at him and brought out a thin chuckle. “You’re a card, son!... If I didn’t know better I’d almost believe you.... Well, take a look at this set. That left wall looks kind of dark to me. It’s ox blood and it might light up with spots on it. What d’you think?”
Callers interfered. Gurdy went down the stairs into the lobby packed with women who came out from the matinée. All these decorated bodies flowed left and right about a dull blue placard announcing, “Early in December The Walling Theatre will open with ‘Captain Salvador’ by Stephen O’Mara,” and some women paused, drawing on gloves, fussing with veils. A slim and black haired girl stared boldly at Gurdy, passing him. She wasn’t like Margot but he hated her for an instant and then stalked up Sixth Avenue where the lights of restaurants roused in the dusk and the crowd of Saturday evening brayed. In ten cool blocks Gurdy captured his philosophy, held it firmly; Mark was unreasonably hurt—in fact, Mark was an old-fashioned, unphilosophic fellow who hadn’t progressed, was still a country boy in essence, hadn’t even gained the inferior cynicism of his trade and friends. He was letting himself be bullied by Cora Boyle on an antique concept. Why should he let himself be laughed at and lose money for this immaterial thing? Gurdy succeeded in getting angry at Mark and tramped about the blue library preparing a lecture, saw a glove of Margot’s on a table and tossed it into a waste basket. He could imagine Mark shedding tears over that empty glove and its presence in the copper basket fretted Gurdy. He plucked it forth and flung it into the fire of cedar logs where it made a satisfactory hiss, blackening. It must have been perfumed. A scent floated out of the fire. Gurdy grinned over the symbol and poked the remnant which crumbled and was nothing. He stood reducing Margot’s importance to logical ash and so intently that he jumped when the butler told him that Russell was downstairs. The director strolled in and looked about the room before speaking.
“Nice walls,” he said, “Well, Gurdy, I’ve just seen Miss Boyle.”
“Where?”
“At her hotel.—I’m mixed up in this and I thought I might help Mr. Walling out. So I went to see her and had a talk. It didn’t come to anything.” He sat down in Mark’s fireside chair, stooped his head and brooded, “I’d a sneaking idea that this game was a sort of revenge. Walling’s been good to her—done things for her. That might rankle. Well, I pointed out that ‘Todgers’ is a waste of time. I did my best to make her see that. It was funny.... She sat on a lounge and rocked a cushion as if it were a baby—in her arms—Has she ever had a child?”
“I think not.”
“And she’s ten or eleven years older than Rand.... It’s no good. She thinks he’s great in this play and she thinks it’ll run all winter in New York. And there we are, Bernamer. She’s set on the thing. Mr. Walling had better get it over as soon as he can. If he doesn’t, she’ll be ugly. I’m mighty sorry.”