“Where are you going?”
Gurdy recognized a quiet character who came to luncheons now and then. He said, “H’lo, Mr. Frohman,” dutifully and looked about for the theatre. The stooping man detained him gravely.
“I thought you weren’t old enough for shows.”
“I’m looking for Mark.”
Mr. Frohman chuckled, leaning on a stick. He said, “He’s in his office.”
“Where’s that?”
Gurdy stared past the pointing stick and saw a cream face of columns and windows. He saw the stone above a ring of heads. People were gaping at his calm acquaintance as if this plump, tired man was a kicking horse. He remembered civility and asked, “How’s your rheumatism?”
“Better,” said Mr. Frohman and limped away.
Gurdy pushed scornfully through the gapers and trotted into the white vestibule of the theatre where men were arranging flowers—horseshoes of orchids, ugly and damp, roses in all tints, lumps of unknown bloom on standards wrapped in silver foil. A redhaired, hatless youth listed the cards dangling from these treasures and told Gurdy to go to hell when Gurdy asked for his uncle but another man nodded to stairs of yellow, slick marble. On the landing Gurdy found a door stencilled in gold, “Carlson & Walling.” The door opened into a room hung with photographs where Gurdy saw Mark sitting on a table, surrounded by men. Mr. Carlson, already sheathed in winter furs, bullied a carpenter who corrected the lower shelf of a bookcase. Gurdy stood wondering at the furious shades of neckties and the grey hard hats which Miss Converse thought vulgar.
“My God,” said Carlson, “Mark, look at that comin’ in!”