“Yes, but I drank ginger ale and didn’t smoke eighteen cigars. And yet I don’t know, I think I must be getting old, George. All-night parties seem to have lost their charm. I was ready to quit at one o’clock, but it didn’t seem matey. I think I'll marry a farmer and settle down.”
George was amazed. He had not expected to find his present view of life shared in this quarter.
“I was just thinking myself,” he said, feeling not for the first time how different Billie was from the majority of those with whom his profession brought him in contact, “how flat it all was. The show business, I mean, and these darned first nights, and the party after the show which you can’t sidestep. Something tells me I’m about through.”
Billie Dore nodded.
“Anybody with any sense is always about through with the show business. I know I am. If you think I’m wedded to my art let me tell you I’m going to get a divorce the first chance that comes along. It’s funny about the show business—the way one drifts into it and sticks, I mean. Take me, for example. Nature had it all doped out for me to be the belle of Hicks Corners. What I ought to have done was to buy a gingham bonnet and milk cows. But I would come to the great city and help brighten up the tired business man.”
“I didn’t know you were fond of the country, Billie.”
“Me? I wrote the words and music. Didn’t you know I was a country kid? My dad ran a Bide A Wee Home for flowers, and I used to know them all by their middle names. He was a nursery gardener out in Indiana. I tell you, when I see a rose nowadays,
