So absorbed was he in such observations that he found it intolerably
difficult to fix his attention on the talk. Jasper's fluency seemed to
ripple senselessly about his brain.
"You must consent to one thing, Luck: you must allow me to choose my
own time for announcing the authorship." This found its way partially
to his intelligence and he gave careless assent.
"Oh, whenever you like, as soon as I've had my fun."
"Of course--" Morena was thoughtful for an instant. "How would it do
for me to leave it with Melton, the business manager? Eh? Suppose I
phone him and talk it over a little. He'll want to wait till toward
the end of the run. He's keen; has just the commercial sense of the
born advertiser. Let him choose the moment. Then we can feel sure of
getting the right one. Will you, Luck?"
"If you advise it. You ought to know."
"You see, I'm so confoundedly busy, so many irons in the fire, I might
just miss the psychic moment. I think Melton's the man--I'll call him
up to-night before we leave. Then I won't forget it and I'll be sure
to catch him too."
Again Prosper vaguely agreed and promptly forgot that he had given his
permission. Later, there came an agonizing moment when he would have
given the world to recall his absent, careless words.
With an effort Prosper kept his poise, with an effort, always
increasing, he talked to Jasper while Betty dressed, and kept up his
end at dinner. The muscles round his mouth felt tight and drawn, his
throat was dry. He was glad when they got into the limousine and
started theaterwards. It had been a long time since he had been put
through this particular ordeal and he was out of practice.
They reached the house just as the lights went out. Prosper was amused
at his own intense excitement. "I didn't know I was still such a kid,"
he said, flashing a smile, the first spontaneous one he had given her,
upon Betty who sat beside him in the proscenium box.
The success of his novel had had no such effect upon him as this. It
was entrancing to think that in a few moments the words he had written
would come to him clothed in various voices, the people his brain had
pictured would move before him in flesh and blood, doing what he had
ordained that they should do. When the curtain rose, he had forgotten
his personal problem, had forgotten Betty. He leaned forward, his
elbows on his knees, his chin in his hand.