“What’s new in the show business, son?”
“The Merry Widow is,” Mark laughed, “and you wouldn’t buy it. Savage is bringing it in week after next. They were playing the music at Rector’s last night.—Look here, the set for the last act’s all wrong, still. Those green curtains—”
“You and your sets! God,” said Carlson, “you’d ought to’ve been a scene painter!”
“I wish I could be, for about one week!” Mark let a grievance loose, slapping his leg. “These people make me sick! You tell them you want something new and they trot out some sketch of a room that every one’s seen for twenty years. They never think of—”
“You ain’t ever satisfied! You act like scenery made a show—”
Mark sighed, “Well, we’re not giving the public its moneysworth with this piece. The scenery’s—mediocre.—Come up and see Margot.”
The old man poked Margot’s doll with a shaking thumb and called her Maggie to see her scowl, like Mark. The little girl’s solemn vanity delighted him. He was also delighted by Gurdy who became an embodied sneer when Mark fondled Margot. The boy watched Mark kiss this female nuisance then walked haughtily out of the library and set to work banging the piano in the upper playroom.
“All you need’s a wife and a mother-in-law and you’d have a happy home,” Carlson said when Mark let him out of the front door.
“Think I haven’t?”
“I suppose you have. Ain’t any truth in this that you’re goin’ to marry that Monroe gal?”