Mr. Frohman held out his hand. “Good luck to you. I shall hope for rain.”
“Thanks! Good morning, sir.”
With the perfect ease of a lack of self-consciousness Jarvis made his exit, leaving Mr. Frohman with a twinkle in his eyes.
The rest of the day a certain blond cabman on the avenue drove to Franklin Simon’s when he was ordered to Altman’s, drew up in state at McCreery’s when he was told Bonwit Teller’s.
“You must be drunk, driver,” said one passenger. She held up her dollar bill, indignantly, to dismiss him. He lifted his hat, perfunctorily, and swept a bow.
“I am, madam, intoxicated with my own thoughts.” He rattled off down the street, leaving the woman rooted to the curb with astonishment.
He taught himself to abandon his old, introspective habits during these days on the box, and forced his attention to fix itself upon the crowds, his customers, the whole uptown panorama, so different from the night crowds he sought. He recalled Bambi’s saying to him that until he learned not to exclude any of the picture he would never do big work. Her words had a tantalizing way of coming back to
