Mark breathed comfortably, helped the boy on his knee tighten the white trousers and passed into dotage. Eddie Bernamer and Joe Walling had begotten these bodies. The fact mattered nothing. Mark was a father. He had possession. When things went wrong he could come home to gloat over Margot and Gurdy. He promised, “I shan’t be busy now for a week. We’ll ride in the Park and feed the squirrels, sonny.”
“All right. Say, Mark, you’re all thin.—There’s the doorbell, again.—Oh, say, a lady telephoned s’noon. Her name was Miss Monroe and she wanted you to call her up.”
“I like her nerve!”
Gurdy jumped at this loud snort of his uncle.
“Who’s she?”
“She’s an actress,” Mark stammered, hoping the boy wouldn’t go on, and Carlson came in, his yellow face splotched as though he’d been walking fast.
“That Rand squirt been here?” he yelled at Mark.
“Yes. Why?”
“I passed him. What’s he want?”
“Me to meet her.”