“Bosh,” said Mark, “there weren’t any women’s clothes in Ervine’s ‘John Ferguson’ and the women ate it alive!”
“But that fellow Ervine’s an Englishman, you big calf! You ain’t going to open the Walling with a sad piece by an American where there ain’t any duds for the women to gawp at! You’re off your head. Ain’t I told you a million times that the New York woman won’t swallow a home grown show that’s tragic unless it’s all dressed up? Stop him, Gurdy!”
“It’s a damned good play, sir,” said Gurdy.
He thought it high fortune that Mark should find anything so adroit and moving for the Walling’s first play. Some of the critics believed in O’Mara’s talent. Several artists in scenery were asked to submit designs. The pressmen began a scattering campaign of notes on O’Mara and hints about the play. A procession of comely young women declined the best female part as “unsympathetic.”
“That means no clothes to it,” Carlson sniffed.
“But they’re fools,” Gurdy insisted, “It’s a good acting part.”
“My God,” the old man screamed, “don’t you know that no woman wants a part where she can’t show her shape off and wear pearls! And these hens that got looks don’t have to act any more. They go to California and get in the movies. You talk like actresses were human beings! Women don’t act unless they ain’t good lookin’ or’ve got brains. You’ll have to go a long ways if you want a good lookin’ wench for that part. God, you keep talkin’ like actin’ was some kind of an art! It ain’t. It’s a game for grown up kids that they get paid for. An actor that’s got any brains never gets to be more’n some one smart in comedy. A tragedian’s nothin’ but a hunk of mush inside his head. Catch a girl that’ll act tragical when she can sit on a sofa in a Paris gown and have some goop make eyes at her!—And Mark’ll have a fine time at rehearsals makin’ any leadin’ man wear a stubble beard and eat with his knife, like in this play. Art!” and the old man fell asleep snorting. Yet his bedroom behind the panelled library was dotted with photographs of dead actors and actresses. Sometimes his dry voice trailed into a sort of tenderness when he spoke of James Lewis or Augustin Daly.
“Softhearted as an egg,” said Mark, hesitated and resumed, “He’s got fifty thousand apiece for you and Margot in his will, sonny. Rest of it goes to his sister’s children in Sweden.—What’s this you were saying about running out to Chicago?”
“I’d rather like to. Lacy Martin—remember him? I roomed with him freshman year at college—Lacy lost his leg in France. He’s rather blue. His mother wrote me that she’d like me to come out. I thought I would.”
“Well.—I thought I’d surprise you with it. Got a cable from Olive Ilden Thursday. Margot sailed Friday. Ought to land day after tomorrow.” He saw the orange level of Gurdy’s cocktail flicker. Then the boy set it down and brooded. Mark made his face stolid to watch this. The butler served fish and retired without noise to his pantry. The tapestry of Chinese flowers behind Gurdy’s chair stirred in the May wind. The boy was immobile, fair and trim in his chair. He seemed strangely handsome—a long, easy lounging gentleman who hated sharp emotions.