“Do you think he will come to-day?”
“Far be it from me to say.”
“But I wish to see him.”
“Many a blond has twirled his thumbs around here for weeks for the same reason.”
“But I am only in New York for a little while.”
“I should worry,” said she, opening her typewriter desk. “Give me your play. I’ll see that it gets to him.”
“I’d rather talk to him myself.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I suppose I can wait here?”
“No charge for chairs,” said the cheerful one.
An hour passed, broken only by the click of the typewriter. Conventional overtures from the cheerful one being discouraged, she smashed the keys in sulky silence. From eleven to twelve things were considerably enlivened. Many sleek youths, of a type he had seen on Broadway, arrived. They saluted the cheerful one gayly as “Sally” and indulged in varying degrees of witty persiflage before the inevitable “The Governor in?”
“Nope.”
“Expect him to-day?”
“I dunno.”
