I lunched with them and I dined with them, not only the next day but all the rest of the week. And on Friday I got Ben to lunch with them and he liked them, too; they were not half as gushing and silly as most of his fans.
At dinner on Saturday night, they cross-examined me about our immediate plans. I told them that as soon as the show was over in New York, I was going to try to make Ben stay home and do nothing for a whole month.
“I should think,” said Mrs. Thayer, “it would be very hard for him to rest there in the city, with the producers and publishers and phonograph people calling him up all the time.”
I admitted that he was bothered a lot.
“Listen, dearie,” said Mrs. Thayer. “Why don’t you come to Landsdowne and spend a week with us? I’ll promise you faithfully that you won’t be disturbed at all. I won’t let anyone know you are there and if any of our friends call on us I’ll pretend we’re not at home. I won’t allow Mr. Drake to even touch the piano. If he wants exercise, there are miles of room in our yard to walk around in, and nobody can see him from the street. All day and all night, he can do nothing or anything, just as he pleases. It will be ‘Liberty Hall’ for you both. He needn’t tell anybody where he is, but if some of his friends or business acquaintances find out and try to get in touch with him, I’ll frighten them away. How does that sound?”
“It sounds wonderful,” I said, “but—”
“It’s settled then,” said Mrs. Thayer, “and we’ll expect you on Sunday, October eleventh.”
“Oh, but the show may not be set by that time,” I remonstrated.
“How about the eighteenth?” said Mr. Thayer.
Well, it ended by my accepting for the week of the twenty-fifth and Ben took it quite cheerfully.
“If they stick to their promise to keep us under cover,” he said, “it may be a lot better than staying in New York. I know that Buck and the Shuberts and Ziegfeld want me while I’m hot and they wouldn’t give me a minute’s peace if they could find me. And of course if things aren’t as good as they look, Irene’s telegram will provide us with an easy out.”
On the way over to Philadelphia he hummed me an awfully pretty melody which had been running through his head since we left the apartment. “I think it’s sure fire,” he said. “I’m crazy to get to a piano and fool with it.”
“That isn’t resting, dear.”
“Well, you don’t want me to throw away a perfectly good tune! They aren’t so plentiful that I can afford to waste one. It won’t take me five minutes at a piano to get it fixed in my mind.”
The Thayers met us in an expensive-looking limousine.
“Ralph,” said Mrs. Thayer to her husband, “you sit in one of the little seats and Mr. and Mrs. Drake will sit back here with me.”
“I’d really prefer one of the little seats myself,” said Ben and he meant it, for he hates to get his clothes mussed and being squeezed in beside two such substantial objects as our hostess and myself was bound to rumple him.
“No, sir!” said Mrs. Thayer positively. “You came to us for a rest and we’re not going to start you off uncomfortable.”
“But I’d honestly rather—”
It was no use. Ben was wedged between us and throughout the drive maintained a morose silence, unable to think of anything but how terrible his coat would look when he got out.
The Thayers had a very pretty home and the room assigned to us was close to perfection. There were comfortable twin beds with a small stand and convenient reading-lamp between; a big dresser and chiffonier; an ample closet with plenty of hangers; a bathroom with hot water that was hot, towels that were not too new and faucets that stayed on when turned on, and an ashtray within reach of wherever you happened to be. If only we could have spent all our time in that guestroom, it would have been ideal.
But presently we were summoned downstairs to luncheon. I had warned Mrs. Thayer in advance and Ben was served with coffee. He drinks it black.
“Don’t you take cream, Mr. Drake?”
“No. Never.”
“But that’s because you don’t get good cream in New York.”
“No. It’s because I don’t like cream in coffee.”
“You would like our cream. We have our own cows and the cream is so rich that it’s almost like butter. Won’t you try just a little?”
“No, thanks.”
“But just a little, to see how rich it is.”
She poured about a tablespoonful of cream into his coffee-cup and for a second I was afraid he was going to pick up the cup and throw it in her face. But he kept hold of himself, forced a smile and declined a second chop.
“You haven’t tasted your coffee,” said Mrs. Thayer.
“Yes, I have,” lied Ben. “The cream is wonderful. I’m sorry it doesn’t agree with me.”
“I don’t believe coffee agrees with anyone,” said Mrs. Thayer. “While you are here, not doing any work, why don’t you try to give it up?”
“I’d be so irritable you wouldn’t have me in the house. Besides, it isn’t plain coffee that disagrees with me; it’s coffee with cream.”
“Pure, rich cream like ours couldn’t hurt you,” said Mrs. Thayer, and Ben, defeated, refused to answer.
He started to light a Jaguar cigarette, the brand he had been smoking for years.
“Here! Wait a minute!” said Mr. Thayer. “Try one of mine.”
“What are they?” asked Ben.
“Trumps,” said our host, holding out his case. “They’re mild and won’t irritate the throat.”
“I’ll sample one later,” said Ben.
“You’ve simply got to try one now,” said Mrs. Thayer. “You may as well get used to them because you’ll have to smoke them all the
