“We weren’t quarrelling. Cosmo Rand’s making an ass of himself at the rehearsals. She rather planted him on Mark. Mark’s so sensitive about Cora Boyle that Russell—the man who’s rehearsing ‘Todgers’—and I don’t want to worry Mark with the mess. I wanted Margot to write Rand a note and tell him to buck up. He’s holding the rehearsals back. Here it’s almost the first of November. Mark’s got a theatre in Washington for a couple of weeks from now and the play isn’t half ready.”
Olive tapped a cigarette holder on the walnut, Dutch table and looked at the floor. Then she raised her eyes and smiled, spoke without artifice.
“I shan’t let her write to Rand, Gurdy. She’s too much interested in him. I don’t like it. She cabled him to come over here as soon as she’d bullied Mark into buying the rights to ‘Todgers Intrudes.’ The little idiot thinks him a great actor. I’m sure I don’t know why. I don’t at all like this. I only found it out yesterday. Mark wouldn’t like it. The man’s married and if he happens to tell people Margot sent for him—I quite understand theatrical gossip, Gurdy. Mark’s a great person and it would make quite a story. And of course there are rats who don’t like Mark.”
“How did you find this out, Lady—”
“In the silliest way. I was talking about Ronny Dufford and Margot began to argue that this wretched play is really good. She rather lost her temper. She told me you’d tried to persuade Mark not to produce the thing to spite her. I—” Olive laughed unhappily, “I hadn’t the faintest idea that you’d quarrelled. You’re rather too cool, old man. I’ve been teasing you all this time fancying that you were wildly in love with the child and it seems that you’re at odds.—Oh, It’s all utter nonsense, of course! But I don’t like it. It’s a pose. She rather prides herself on being unconventional. And the silliest part of it is that she feels she’s done Mark a favour.”
“She’s probably cost him about fifteen thousand dollars,” said Gurdy.
This was antique, this tale of a handsome, dapper actor and a girl gone moonstruck over his pink face. Gurdy grunted, “We can’t tell Mark this. He’d be upset. It’s idiotic.”
Olive laughed, “Oh, you mustn’t get excited over it, Gurdy. The play will fail and she’ll drop Rand. It’s a gesture, you see? The clever girl doing the unconventional thing.” She became comfortable, then artificial. “You mustn’t take Margot at her own valuation, dear. She’s the moment—the melodramatic moment. What’s that American slang? She’s no—no ball of fire! She admires people easily and drops them easily. She’s eighteen. She was quite lost in adoration of the Countess of Flint two years ago and then the poor woman did something the child didn’t like—wore the wrong frock, probably—and that was all over. The poor lady died in Colorado yesterday.—That means consumption, doesn’t it? I read the notice to Margot at breakfast and she said, ‘Really.’ Rand flattered her about her acting, I fancy, and she thinks he’s remarkable in return for the compliment. Every normal female gets mushy—I’m quite Americanized—over an actor at eighteen. When I was eighteen I wrote a five act tragedy and sent it to—Merciful Heaven—I’ve forgotten who he was! Beerbohm Tree, probably. But I must congratulate you on your attitude. You had a frightful row at Fayettesville. She said, herself, that she was to blame. She hurt you. And you’ve not shown it in the least.”
“It didn’t amount to much.—But, Mark wouldn’t like this business. And of course some people don’t like him. They’d be ready to talk if they thought she was flirting with—”
“But she isn’t! If she was I’d drag her off to Japan with me. She’s hardly spoken to the man except at those rehearsals last winter. It’ll die a swift death when the play fails, old man. We’ve no use for failures at eighteen.”