Joe’s description of Lucille was a rhapsody. Stella wrote a telegram of congratulation. She read them the telegram and the list of signatures—Vic Wylie, Stella Joyce, Bert Farr, Joe Carlin.
“Miss Robb will want to be in that,” said Joe. “Why not Archie Munn? What’s become of him? I haven’t seen him in two weeks.”
Stella said slowly: “You knew he was offered a selling job? He took it. He had to. He couldn’t live on bit parts and a few funerals.”
“He’ll be back,” Joe predicted.
“I’m not so sure,” Stella said slowly. “There’s a limit.” She held the telegram and looked toward the settee. “Want your name on this, Sonny?”
One of Sonny’s eyebrows lifted blandly. “I didn’t hear the performance.”
“Why don’t you get wise to yourself?” Stella snapped. “Lu was always good.”
“Not bad,” Sonny murmured languidly, and returned to the magazine.
A door slammed, and Vic Wylie was upon them. The producer’s hat was dented, his top-coat collar was half up and half down, the brief-case, closed by a single strap and gaping at one end, swung past his knee. He dumped the brief-case on the desk.
“You gave me a lousy show to-day,” he snarled at the cast. “Dish-water! Hello, kid. How was she?”