The Gay Adventure Part 17

"You've as much chance," said Beatrice, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes, "as a bob-tailed dog in fly time! There's one of your own Americanisms for you, and I hope you like it!"

Ashford Billing could not help laughing, though Beatrice seemed in a thoroughly bad temper.

"Say, that's fierce!" he said, relapsing. "Where did you hear that?"

Then he became graver. "But I won't worry you any more. I'm sorry ...

but I guess I'll study to improve my manners."

"Let's get to business," said Beatrice, sitting down. "I'm tired to death of this. What is it you want?"

"Well," he said, following her example, "I came here for two things. The first was to ask you to be my--oh, yes! good enough! I know that's a back number now. For the present, anyway. If that didn't materialize I wanted to know if you'd care to tour the provinces in _A False Step_.

You know we close down in a week, and I'm going to start the tour--number one towns only--in the autumn."

Beatrice shook her head.

"No; I'm going to take a rest."

"You'll have lots of time to take a rest before the tour starts. Why not----"

"Look here, Ashford! You seem to think that I don't know my own mind in anything. I've already refused your offer for a London shop, and I don't mean to think about the provinces. See? I won't be worried any more--I'm----"

She paused and suddenly burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands.

Ashford Billing, long accustomed to the vagaries of leading ladies and hardened in a rough school, was completely taken aback. He had known Beatrice for a fine actress and a finer woman--a woman who had charm, good looks and character. To see her break down for no apparent reason was not merely distressing--it was a shock.

"Say, little girl," he said kindly--and there was no hint of disrespect, though on other occasions he was scrupulous in his use of "Miss Blair"--"I'm real sorry. I didn't know you'd feel bad about it. What's the trouble? Can I be of any help?"

Beatrice recovered herself, feeling extremely ashamed.

"It's only nerves," she replied, drying her eyes with vicious dabs. "I didn't sleep last night. That's all. Give me a cigarette."

Billing opened his case and gave her one, looking gravely at her. There was something behind this, he thought, but what it was he could not guess.

"I won't worry you any more," he said quietly. "I'd have liked to book you for that tour, but I guess you know best. You've had a tiring season--long runs are the very deuce, though they pay the manager. You take that rest you talk of and make it a good one. But let me know when you feel like getting to work again."

"Thanks, Ashford," said Beatrice, smoking quickly. "You're a good sort.

But, honestly, I'm thinking of giving up the stage altogether. I'm getting sick of it."

Billing, who had had the kudos of giving Beatrice her first chance, felt his heart sink. But, realizing that this was not the time to urge mature reflection, he held his peace. Beatrice talked idly a few minutes, trying to appear natural, but the effort was great.

"Where are you going for a holiday?" she asked.

"Flying," he answered. "Across the channel, perhaps. I've never done it yet."

"What a queer boy you are," she said, looking at him fixedly. "What on earth made you take to the aeroplane?"

"Why on earth did I take to the sky?" he laughed. "I did it to advertise my first production over here. It was the right goods, too, for every one talked about the actor-manager-air-man. When I found how exciting it was, I couldn't stop. That's all."

"You're odd creatures, you men," said Beatrice, musing. "I should have thought that managing theaters was exciting enough."

"Change of excitement--just like falling in love with a new sweetheart,"

he smiled.

"Ah! that sounds like a man! Tell me, Ashford, do all men run after every pretty face they see?"

"You want me to give away trade secrets, eh? Well, I suppose most men do ... until they're hooked."

"Ashford! _Hooked!_ How loathsome!"

"I beg your pardon ... I was thinking as a cynical bachelor. What I mean is that I suppose most men swear off the pursuit once they've promised."

"And never relapse?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"The decent ones don't, but even they sometimes have a bit of a struggle. Take an extreme case: suppose a decent chap gets engaged, and force of circ.u.mstances keeps him apart from his divinity for ...

years...."

"He ought to feel bound in honor not even to think of another!" flashed Beatrice.

Billing sighed.

"He ought, but he's up against a tough proposition. At least, the decent one tries...."

"Men are horrible," she said wearily.

"Pretty horrible," he agreed, "but there's an amazing lot of unseen goodness hidden in the dirt.... Men aren't so bad ... some men. But we're getting too serious. I must be off. It's been a bad morning's work for me." He smiled--not very whole-heartedly, but still he smiled. "You refuse both my offers. But you'll let me know if I can ever do anything, won't you? That's merely friendly."

Beatrice did not smile, but she looked appreciatively at him.

"Thanks, Ashford," she said. "Yes; I've just remembered one thing you can do. Read a play by a friend of mine."

He groaned in comic despair.

"All right!" he said, "but don't make me promise to produce it. Remember this is my living!"

"No; I only want you to read it. If it's bad, say so like a man: don't put the poor wretch off with the usual sugary criticism. And don't let it lie for months with all the rest of the lumber. You managers are cruel to authors, and you've had this one lying idle a long time."

He did not deny the charge, save by a smile.

"I'll read it this week, sure," he said. "What's it called, and who's the author?"

"I forget the name of the play. The author is a Mr. Mortimer."

She said the name quite easily and without a blush, but Billing on the instant thought, "Who the devil is he? And what does she want to push his play for?" But he did not allow his face even to hint at surprise.

He just held out his hand and said good-by, as naturally as if he had not been rejected without any hope of a future recantation. For though he professed optimism, in his heart he felt that Beatrice was not for him, and the knowledge hurt.

"Good-by," he said cheerily. "Mind you have a good holiday, and come back to work soon."

"Good-by, Ashford," she said, trying to keep back some unnecessary tears. She had known him for some time and guessed what he was thinking.

He, she was sure, was at least one of the men who tried. "You're a good sort. Good-by."