Mark knew better but Gurdy’s brave mendacity cheered him. He grinned and rode on. He must think of ways to make Gurdy forget the girl. When they reached the house he telephoned the gayest folk he could find and summoned them to a luncheon. He worked in a fever, keeping Gurdy busy with new plays, ritual lunches at the Algonquin and motor trips to country inns where they hadn’t been with Margot who somehow wavered in Mark’s mind. He began to lose an immediate, answering picture of her. It was hard to recall her phrases of later time. Things she had said and poses of her childhood rose more clearly. She merged in his perplexed hunt for a theatre. When he found, on the first of December, that he couldn’t rent or beg a playhouse for “Todgers Intrudes” he hated Margot for an hour and tramped his library in a sweat of loathing. He must defame the Walling with this nonsense, finish his bargain by dishonouring himself and his dream, for the Walling was not altogether real. He roamed the shell where workmen were covering the naked chairs with dull blue, in a haze. The smell of banana oil and turpentine made him dizzy. The silver and black boxes seemed vaporous like the mist of the ceiling when the lamps were tried on its surface. He had moments of sheer glory through which came burning the thought of Cora Boyle and Margot, in this queer alliance. His offices were transferred to broad rooms by the white landing of the wide stairs in the Walling. There was an alcove for Gurdy’s desk and here Mark told him suddenly, “Goin’ to bring ‘Todgers’ in here next week, son.”
Gurdy paled, leaned on the new desk and flexed his hands on his fair head. He said, “Oh, no!”
“Got to, son. I’ve tried all I know.”
The boy babbled, “Don’t do it!... Oh, damn it! You’ve been working for this place for years and—It’s not worth it! Look here, let me go talk to this damned woman!”
“No. I’ve got some pride left, son. You shan’t go near her. You go down to the farm and stay with the folks.”
Gurdy wanted nothing more. All the pressmen and underlings were puzzled by Mark’s maintenance of the English comedy on the road. It was not making money. The theatrical weeklies had warned New York how bad was “Todgers Intrudes.” Gurdy drove his motor down to Fayettesville on Saturday, had a fit of shame and hurried back on Sunday. On the face of the Walling the dead electric bulbs told the news, “Mark Walling Presents Todgers Intrudes With Cosmo Rand” and Mark’s treasurer came out of the white doors to expostulate.
“I don’t get this. Your uncle’s playin’ for a dead loss, Mr. Bernamer. It’s no damn good.”
“Where is he?”
“Went up to New Haven yesterday. ‘Captain Salvador’ played there last night. Say, what’s the idea? This ‘Todgers’ ain’t done a thing but eat up money. Every one knows it’s a frost!” The man worried openly.
There could be no explanation, Gurdy saw. The critics would jeer. Mark’s friends would chaff him. The boy patted his wheel and asked, “What night does it open?”