“Not much. Truth is, I don’t catch a joke easy. I’ve tried readin’ Molière but it sounds pretty dry to me. Haven’t tried—Aristophanes?—I guess that’s deeper’n I could swim—”
“Rot! You mustn’t let yourself—what is it?—be blinded by the glory of great names. Any one who can see the point in Patience can understand Aristophanes.... But you haven’t much humour. But you’ve played in comedy?”
“Some. I’d just as soon.”
Olive began “Anitra’s Dance” knowing that he liked melodrama and watched his eyes brighten, dilating. She said amiably, “A fine comedian’s the greatest boon in the world. Women especially. Is it true that women who’re good in comedy are usually rather serious off the stage?”
“Can’t say—Well, my wife was pretty damn serious!”
His huge sigh made Olive laugh. She asked, “You’ve no children?”
“No. Guess that was the trouble.—Play that Peer Gynt Mornin’ thing.”
“I’ve played enough,” said Olive. “You say Mr. Carlson sent you over to look at some plays for him? He must trust your judgment.”
Mark answered happily, “Sure. He says that if I take to a play so’ll every one else. He says I’ve got lots of judgment about plays.”
Olive shut the piano and rose. Her face wrinkled off into laughter. She said, “You dear thing! I dare say he’s quite right about that. Good night.”