“I?” Rand laughed, “Lord, yes. I’m a Canadian. Born in Iowa, as a matter of fact. I’ve been a good deal in England, of course.—Oh, I was at your new piece the other night. Red Winter, I mean. How very nicely you’ve mounted it. I really felt beastly cold in that second act. The snow’s so good.”
Mark bowed, selecting a sandwich. The critics had praised the snow scene. Rand might truly admire it. If the snow hadn’t satisfied Mark it had pleased every one else. He lost himself in thoughts of snow. Cora trailed her rose gown to the table and poured water into a glass of pale wine. A broad bracelet on her wrist clicked against the glass. She said, “You and Carlson own all the rights to Red Winter, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to send it to London?”
He laughed and put down his glass. “London? What for? It’d last just about one week!”
Cora smiled over a shoulder, retiring to the shelf of flowers.
“It would do better than that, Mark. I’ve played in London.”
“I’ve never played there but I’ve been there enough to know better. California Gold Rush! They don’t know there was such a thing!”
“Oh, I say,” said Rand.
Cora sipped some watered wine. The light shot through the glass and made a pear of glow on her throat. She was motionless, drinking. She became a shape set separate from the world in a momentary gleam. He knew that she was acting. Then she said sharply, “I’ll buy the English rights if you and Carlson’ll make me a decent figure.”