“Old man, when you’ve lived to be forty you’ll find out that only one person in a thousand can resist a sentimentalism on their side of the question. And it’s almost always a sentimentalist who writes plays on economics. But you do look seedy. Are you coming to the country with us after luncheon?”
“No.”
But he drove with Mark and Olive to the half finished front of The Walling in West 47th Street. Mark pointed out the design of Doric columns and bare tablets. Olive guessed at a simple richness and stared after Mark when he walked through groups of hot, noisy workmen into the shadow of his own creation. His black height disappeared among the girders and the dust of lime.
“Did it all himself,” said Gurdy. “The architects just followed what he wanted done.—You called him a kid with a box of paints. You should see him fuss over a stage setting!—D’you know—my father’s an awfully observant man. He was talking about Mark the other day. Dad says that when Mark was a kid he used to draw all the time. And they’ve got some pictures he drew in old school books and things. They’re not bad. Dad says that before Mark married Cora Boyle and came to New York they all thought he was going to turn out an artist.”
“Is it true that his whole success is because he decorates plays so well?”
“No. The truth is, he’s an awfully good business man. And I’ve seen enough of the theatre to see that some of the managers and producers aren’t any good at business. They mess about and talk and—He’s coming back.”
She saw Gurdy’s eyes centre on Mark with a queer, tense look. The boy stood on the filthy pavement studying the theatre as the car drove east.
“Crazy about the place,” said Mark, brushing his sleeve, “I do think people will like it, Olive. Won’t be so dark that they can’t read a program or so light the women’ll have to wear extra paint.—My God, I’m glad Margot don’t daub herself up! Well, she don’t have to. And I’m glad she don’t want to act.”
“Why?” Olive asked, “You were an actor. You live entirely surrounded by actors. It’s an ancient and honourable calling—much more so than the law or the army.”
Mark rubbed his short nose and grinned.