“Which revue?”
“Didn’t you know he was going to put on a revue? Oh, rather. A whacking big affair. Going to cut out the Follies and all that sort of thing.”
“But—my goodness!” Sally was alarmed. It was just like Fillmore, she felt, to go branching out into these expensive schemes when he ought to be moving warily and trying to consolidate the small success he had had. All his life he had thought in millions where the prudent man would have been content with hundreds. An inexhaustible fount of optimism bubbled eternally within him. “That’s rather ambitious,” she said.
“Yes. Ambitious sort of cove, your brother. Quite the Napoleon.”
“I shall have to talk to him,” said Sally decidedly. She was annoyed with Fillmore. Everything had been going so beautifully, with everybody peaceful and happy and prosperous and no anxiety anywhere, till he had spoiled things. Now she would have to start worrying again.
“Of course,” argued Ginger, “there’s money in revues. Over in London fellows make pots out of them.”
Sally shook her head.
“It won’t do,” she said. “And I’ll tell you another thing that won’t do. This armchair. Of course it ought to be over by the window. You can see that yourself, can’t you.”
“Absolutely!” said Ginger, patiently preparing for action once more.
II
Sally’s anxiety with regard to her ebullient brother was not lessened by the receipt shortly afterwards of a telegram from Miss Winch in Chicago.
Have you been feeding Fillmore meat?
the telegram ran: and, while Sally could not have claimed that she completely understood it, there was a sinister suggestion about the message which decided her to wait no longer before making investigations. She tore herself away from the joys of furnishing and went round to the headquarters of the Fillmore Nicholas Theatrical Enterprises Ltd. (Managing Director, Fillmore Nicholas) without delay.
Ginger, she discovered on arrival, was absent from his customary post, his place in the outer office being taken by a lad of tender years and pimply exterior, who thawed and cast off a proud reserve on hearing Sally’s name, and told her to walk right in. Sally walked right in, and found Fillmore with his feet on an untidy desk, studying what appeared to be costume-designs.
“Ah, Sally!” he said in the distrait, tired voice which speaks of vast preoccupations. Prosperity was still putting in its silent, deadly work on the Hope of the American Theatre. What, even at as late an epoch as the return from Detroit, had been merely a smooth fullness around the angle of the jaw was now frankly and without disguise a double chin. He was wearing a new waistcoat and it was unbuttoned. “I am rather busy,” he went on. “Always glad to see you, but I am rather busy. I have a hundred things to attend to.”
“Well, attend to me. That’ll only make a hundred and one. Fill, what’s all this I hear about a revue?”
Fillmore looked as like a small boy caught in the act of stealing jam as it is possible for a great theatrical manager to look. He had been wondering in his darker moments what Sally would say about that project when she heard of it, and he had hoped that she would not hear of it until all the preparations were so complete that interference would be impossible. He was extremely fond of Sally, but there was, he knew, a lamentable vein of caution in her makeup which might lead her to criticize. And how can your man of affairs carry on if women are buzzing round criticizing all the time? He picked up a pen and put it down; buttoned his waistcoat and unbuttoned it; and scratched his ear with one of the costume-designs.
“Oh yes, the revue!”
“It’s no good saying ‘Oh yes’! You know perfectly well it’s a crazy idea.”
“Really … these business matters … this interference …”
“I don’t want to run your affairs for you, Fill, but that money of mine does make me a sort of partner, I suppose, and I think I have a right to raise a loud yell of agony when I see you risking it on a …”
“Pardon me,” said Fillmore loftily, looking happier. “Let me explain. Women never understand business matters. Your money is tied up exclusively in The Primrose Way, which, as you know, is a tremendous success. You have nothing whatever to worry about as regards any new production I may make.”
“I’m not worrying about the money. I’m worrying about you.”
A tolerant smile played about the lower slopes of Fillmore’s face.
“Don’t be alarmed about me. I’m all right.”
“You aren’t all right. You’ve no business, when you’ve only just got started as a manager, to be rushing into an enormous production like this. You can’t afford it.”
“My dear child, as I said before, women cannot understand these things. A man in my position can always command money for a new venture.”
“Do you mean to say you have found somebody silly enough to put up money?”
“Certainly. I don’t know that there is any secret about it. Your friend, Mr. Carmyle, has taken an interest in some of my forthcoming productions.”
“What!”
Sally had been disturbed before, but she was aghast now. This was something she had never anticipated. Bruce Carmyle seemed to be creeping into her life like an advancing tide. There appeared to be no eluding him. Wherever she turned, there he was, and she could do nothing but rage impotently. The situation was becoming impossible.
Fillmore misinterpreted the note of dismay in her voice.
“It’s quite all right,” he assured her. “He’s a very rich man. Large private means, besides his big income. Even if anything goes wrong …”
“It isn’t that. It’s …”
The hopelessness of explaining to Fillmore stopped Sally. And while she was chafing at this new complication which had come to upset the orderly routine of her life there was an outburst of voices in the other office. Ginger’s understudy seemed to be
