Enter Mrs. Fadd, R.
Mr. G. (Effusively.) My dear Mrs. Fadd, this is indeed a pleasure. (Places chair, C.)
P. (Bowing.) Yes, unfortunately we see so little of authors, those wonderful people who make the world laugh or weep at their will.
Mr. G. (Tapping P.’s shoulder.) Very neat! I couldn’t have said it so well.
Mrs. F. (Dropping in chair.) You are very kind gentlemen. But I’m here on business. How are the books selling?
Mr. G. The success of your book is simply phenomenal. The sales of “Sweet Jingles Jangled” marks an era in the book business. Presses running day and night. The name of Mrs. Upperdyke Fadd is on every tongue, club talk, society talk, street car talk—why I overheard one newsboy ask another: “Tim wot the dickens did that Mrs. Upperdyke Fadd do?” (All laugh.)
Mrs. F. Yes, they do talk about me. (Laughs.) Penalty of fame! And I am bored to death with letters from everywhere on earth about goodness knows what all, but mostly wanting subscriptions to something or other.
Mr. G. The penalty of greatness, madam!
Mrs. F. The only thing that I shall really push, however, is the new Infirmary for Superannuated Lap-dogs. One must concentrate nowadays. They’ve made me a director in that. Mrs. Wilton Schuyler Vanderzumboom is president. It is an enterprise undertaken exclusively by the most fashionable society. They are breaking their necks in the scramble to get in.
P. Who, the lap-dogs?