"Shall I phone for a taxi, miss?"
"Oh ... oh ... .** Thea was given pause for the first time in this delightful business. Her own stock of pocket money, pitifully light to begin with, was already dwmdling alarmingly fast, and she nardly felt she could expect her cousin *s generosity to run to minor luxuries like taxis. "Couldn't I walk?" she said doubtfully at last. "It isn't really far."
"Walk, miss? Not in those shoes," Denham said with emphasis.
"Oh, no. I suppose not. Can I get a bus quite near?"
"I wouldn't take a dress of Miss Marven's in a bus if I were you," Denham said dryly. And Thea saw both the wisdom of that and the fact that it would not do to regard
the dress as entirely hers, even though Geraldine had technically given it to her.
*'Well-'^
But before Thea could make any other suggestion, the doorbell summoned Denham from the room. Listening, with half her attention still on the taxi problem, Thea heard a man's voice. And then, although Geraldine was not in, apparently Denham invited him in.
A moment latter Denham came back into the bedroom. "It's a gentleman come to take you to the theater, miss."
"Take me to the theater! But I don't know any gentleman in London. Apart from Mr. Varlon, that is."
"It'snotMr. Varlon, miss." _^
"Did he give his name?"
"No, Miss Pendray. He said he'd introduce himself. But he's young—and he's nice looking," Denham added encouragingly.
"And he 11 pay for the taxi," finished Thea with a little gurgle of amusement. "All right, Denham. I'll go and see him. But I can't imagine who he is."
And with a final—and, to tell the truth, very reassuring— glance at herself in the mirror, Thea went out of the room and across the little hall to the lounge.
^
CHAPTER THREE
The man who turned from the fire to greet Thea as she came into the room was tall and dark and young, with bright, eager eyes and an extremely frank smile.
"I—say!" was his boyishly unconventional greeting. And then they both laughed.
"What made you say that?" Thea asked, even.before introductions had been made.
"Well, my uncle didn't quite prepare me for this. He said you were just fresh from school and rather implied that you needed looking after."
"How very nice of your uncle. But what has he got to do with me?"Thea wanted to know.
"Oh, he seemed to think he had quite a lot to do with you. Hasn't he?"
"I don't imagine so. Who is your uncle?" Thea asked.
"Why, Lindsay Varlon, of course. Didn't he call you and tell you I was coming?"
"No, he didn't."
"Well, I suppose he wasn't able to get through or forgot all about it or something."
Thea found she preferred the first alternative.
"Then I'd better introduce myself I'm Stephen Dorley. And I'm sane, over twenty-one, and simply delighted to be taking out such a pretty girl for the evening.''
"Thank you. That's very nice of you." Thea smiled at him." So you're Mr. Varlon's nephew? "
"lam."
"How odd," Thea said, before she could stop herself
"Is it? Why? Do you mean that I am so obviously lacking
in the famous Varlon charm? I do hope you didn't mean that. It would spoil my evening.'*
"No, of course not." Thea laughed. "It was just—oh, I hadn 't thought of Mr. Varlon as being the right vintage for an uncle of grown-up nephews, somehow."
"Hadn't you? Personally I think he looks old and wicked enough for anything," Mr. Varlon's nephew replied cheerfully. "But, as a matter of fact, I am the only one. The only grown-up nephew, I mean. And my mother was very much his elder sister—if that's any assistance in putting your mental calculations right."
"Thank you. That's a lot of help," Thea assured him with a smile.
"Fine. Then let's be getting along to the theater. As relations of the star and producer, we ought to set a good example to the general public, and not fall in over other people's feet just as the plot is developing."
"I should think not! Thea exclaimed indignantly.
"I'm glad you don't think that's part of the fun," he said, as they went out of the apartment together. "I always think latecomers should be wrapped in the candy wrappers they then proceed to rustle and be burned alive at my own personal fires of wrath."
Thea laughed at this and agreed with some heartiness, while she was secretly thinking how this young man's unself-conscious gaiety and nonsense contrasted with his uncle's worldly, slightly sardonic type of amusement.
But how kind of him to think of even finding me an escort, she thought gratefully. It's almost as though he foresaw the taxi difficuhy.
As they arrived at the theater Thea surveyed the bright, crowded entrance with delight.
"Isn't it lovely!" she exclaimed.
"Isn't what lovely?" Her companion smiled because she did, but looked faintly puzzled.
"Why, everything. The lights and the people and the dresses and the excitement of going out. This is the first time I've been to a real theater."
"Good Lord!" Stephen Dorley seemed really impressed. "Is it?"
"Yes. Oh, I've been to occasional country-town theaters
when a touring company has been playing. But that's not the same thing."
"Til say it's not!" agreed her companion with the fervor of one who knew his London theaterland well. '* Well, this is an extra pleasure for me. It's a real novelty taking someone to the theater for the first time. If you have a relation in the theater world you get a bit spoiled and blase, you know."
But he looked so unspoiled and so little blas6 as he said that, that Thea laughed and said, "I'm sure you're not either of those."
"Thanks a lot." He smiled at her. "I'll try to be an honest, artless fellow for this evening."
Thea didn't answer that, but she thought with surprising certainty, He's described himself as he is, of course. How did he happen in this Geraldine-Lindsay Varlon atmosphere, I wonder. He's so straight and decent and open.
And when they were in their seats she said impulsively, "Do you belong to the theater world yourself?"
"Good Lord, no. Do I look like it?*^'
"No," said Thea, with only the vaguest idea of what "the theater world" should look like, apart from the two members of it whom she knew. "You look much too respectable and—and ordinary, in the nice sense of the word."
"I say! You mustn't think hard things like that of theater people," he protested with a laugh. "They're not all like my uncle and your cousin. They're nearly all good husbands and fathers or wives and mothers, as the case may be, and work a darn sight harder than the majority of the people in the audience who sit on their hams and over or underestimate them, according to which school of ignorance they happen to represent."
Oh—do they?" Thea was impressed.
"Of course. But as for me—'Stephen Dorley seemed as willing as most young men to return to the subject of himself "—I'm just a moderately successful architect who means to be a very successful one presently."
"I see. Did your uncle tell you that I'm just in the tadpole stage, so far as a career or earning one's living is concerned?"
"No. All he told me was that you were almost straight from school—which perhaps means rather the same thing, when one comes to think of it—and that you hadn 't anyone
except Geraldine Marven, and were very much in need of some nice respectable friends to see you didn't find life in London too much of a problem."
"He told you that?"
"He did."
"You know," Thea said thoughtfully, "I think your uncle's an awfully nice person."
"Females of all ages always do."
"No. I didn't mean like that. At least, I didn't mean only like that. What's so extraordinary about him is that he s kind in an imaginative way. Lots of people are just kind—in a haphazard, emotional way that gives them a nice feeling but doesn't cost them any brain work. But he seems able to pu
t himself into the feelings of people entirely different from himself, think out what they will most need, and then go to some considerable trouble to supply it."
"Do you really think so?" Stephen Dorley appeared to give this interesting theory his most serious attention. "Perhaps you're right. He is a good sort, in his way. I know my mother adores him, but I'm never quite sure whether it's because she knows him better than most people or that his personal charm extends even to a mere sister.'
"It's probably both," Thea said sagely. And just then the curtain rose.
From the moment Geraldine came onto the stage, Thea knew—with all her inexperience—why her cousin was famous. The play was a sophisticated comedy that called for the most finished and delicate acting, and not one shade of meaning in her long and exacting part did Geraldine blur. Her art was as clear-cut as crystal, and as sparkling. If it was also as cold,-that hardly mattered, for the role called for no great warmth or depth of feeling. Within the limits of her brilliant and scintillating style, she was perfect.
"She is good, isn't she?" Thea exclaimed in the first interval.
"Who? Geraldine? Yes. She knows her onions all right. How do you get on with her?''
This leading question slightly nonplussed Thea.
"Well, I've only known her about twenty-four hours, you know. But she's already been very kind to me in many ways," she added earnestly. "She gave me this dress, for instance—otherwise I couldn't have come to the theater
because I didn't have anything suitable. And she lent me a fur jacket and—oh, all the etceteras. It was very good of her, wasn't it?"
"Not especially," asserted Stephen Dorley. '*It must be great fun giving or lending things to anyone who looks as pretty in them as you do."
Thea laughed.
"But I suppose it is rather a sign of gbod nature if one pretty woman does it for another, ' he conceded. "So she's oeen fairly decent on the whole, eh?"
"Yes, certainly."
"And you like her?"
"Do I have to answer that?" Thea asked with a smile. "IVe already said I haven't known her long."
"No, of course you don't have to answer. And it was just vulgar curiosity on my part that made me ask, I suppose. To be quite frank, I never exactly liked her myself, and yet afterward I always wondered why."
Thea looked at him reflectively and secretly thought, He's no fool, even though he contrives to look very open and artless. I'm going to like him.
Aloud she said, "If I might be allowed a little vulgar curiosity this time'. .. ?"
"Yes, of course." He smiled at her.
"Are my cousin and your uncle—well, is there anything... ?"
"You mean, are they having an affair?" suggested Stephen cheerfully. "No, I don't think so."
"No. I didn't mean that at all!" Thea exclaimed hastily. "I just wondered if he were keen on her."
"Oh. Yes, I suppose so," Stephen said easily. "I don't claim to be in Lin s confidence out-yes, I'd say he gets a considerable thrill out of oroducing for her and generally running around with her. Otherwise, why does he do it? He could repeat the process if he liked with half a dozen other equally attractive women, so I presume one can take it that the one he chooses attracts him.
"I see." Thea thought it all sounded a bit flat and profitless, but didn't like to say so since Stephen was related to the subject of the conversation. "Do you think they might marry eventually, then?" she asked presently.
"Who? Lin and Geraldine!"
"Um-hm."
"Heavens, no. I shouldn't think so. No man in his senses would marry Geraldine unless he were a millionaire,** Stephen declared.
Is she so extravagant?"
Stephen gave her a curious little glance and laughed slightly.
"She's more than extravagant. She's grasping—if you don't mind my saying so.''
"I don't mind your saying so," Thea told him slowly, because she sensed instinctively that this was true. "Then, in that case," she added thoughtfully, "it's all the more extraordinary that she suddenly became quite hospitable and willing for me to stay with her and be something of an expense to her until I 'm on my own feet."
"Did she really agree to that?"
"Oh, yes. She wasn't pleased about it at first. It would be rather a shock for anyone, of course," Thea added hastily and justly. "But this morning she seemed to have thought it over, and she was really very pleasant and friendly about it. Funny, isn't it?"
"It's more than funny. It's incredible," Stephen declared. "Are you sure you haven't turned out to be an heiress, after all, and worth cultivating and putting in one's debt?"
"Quite sure," Thea said, laughing a good deal at the very notion.
"Well, then, there must be something. I'll think about it in the next act and tell you what my guess is," he declared as the curtain rose again.
"You attend to the play and don't bother about my affairs," whispered Thea.
"I like bothering about your affairs," he whispered back again.
Then someone said "Shsh!" and they were both guiltily silent, perhaps remembering what they had previously said about latecomers and paper-rustlers.
But when the next interval came Thea inquired quite eagerly, "Well, what is your guess?"
"About Geraldine, you mean? Frankly, I don't have one," he confessed with a laugh. "But depend upon it, she'll see that she is reimbursed somehow."
"Well, that's quite fair,** Thea said hastily. "I'd want to do that myself, or course. **
"Have you told her so?'*
"Not in so many words. No, I suppose I haven't said anything about that."
"Well, she's either quite sure in her own mind that you will do that, or something else has convinced her that she will be at no loss. You may be quite sure of one thing-whoever pays out any money on your account, it won't be Geraldine, cheerfully or otherwise."
Thea didn't answer that. Not because she felt any overwhelming urge to disagree with the view, but because she had a funny feeling at the back of her mind that somewhere in that sentence lay the clue to this minor mystery.
She would think about it again when she was by herself. At the moment it really didn't matter very much, and there were other, more delightful matters to attend to.
"You'll come out to supper with me after the show, won't you?"Stephen was saying.
"Oh,please-rdloveto."
"First time you've had an after-theater supper?" he inquired with a grin.
"First time,' she agreed, and laughed when he said, "Oh, good!"
"Do we go around behind the scenes first and give family congratulations?" Thea asked.
"No. Lin said I was not to bother to bring you around tonight."
"Did he?" Thea was faintly disappointed, but contrived, she hoped, not to show it. "They re going onto a party, aren't tney? I suppose they don't want to be delayed."
"Possibly,"Stephen agreed, as though the matter didn't interest him very much since it in no way interfered with their own pleasant plans.
Not until the end of the performance, when the cast was bowing before the curtain, did Thea remember—with an enjoyable little thrill of anticipation—the fact that, according to the two girls in front or the theater, Lindsay Varlon would also make an appearance.
A few seconds later he came onto the stage, looking rather paler than the others in the glare of the footlights, but smiling his characteristic little smile.
Thea clapped with sudden added enthusiasm, and p^-haps he remembered where she and his nephew were sitting, because she certainly thought he gave an amused glance in their direction.
And then it was all over and Thea could not help thinking, with ruthless common sense, that the girl who declared she had come three times to this play in order to see the producer bow at the end, could have had very little for her money!
Still, it's nice to see him, all the same, she thought, with an unexpectedly warm, happy feeling, as she went off with young Stephen Dorley to her first afier-theater supper.
"Where
are we going?" she asked interestedly when they were seated in a taxi once more.
"To the Savoy.'*
"Oh-isn't that rather extravagant?" Thea felt she did know as much as that.
"Certainly not. Not on a special occasion, that is."
"Is this a special occasion?"
"Why, of course it is. Meeting each other for the first time, *' he said reproachfully.
"It's very sweet of you, but...."
"But what?"
"You said you were only a moderately successful architect yet. You aren't being extravagant just because it's my first time out like this, are you?"
He took her hand and gripped it rather hard.
"You're rather a darling, aren't you?" he said with a slight laugh. "But—no, I'm really not blowing all next week's lunches on you or getting ready to pawn my best cufflinks, if that's what is worrying you. I'm in funds and can well afford to take you to the Savoy tonight. Is that all right?"
"Oh, quite all right. And I shall adore going now," Thea assured him. "Was it rather rude to ask that question?"
"No. Or if it was, it's the kind of rudeness I like. Polite gold diggers can be had for two a penny, you know."
Thea laughed.
"I suppose they can. Tell me—have you any sisters? You said you had no brothers."
"No. I'm my doting mamma's only child."
"Does she really dote on you?"
*'More than I deserve, I expect. But she's too charming and has too much common sense to make a cuh of it.*'
'*She sounds nice."
"She is. I'd like you to meet her. We have a rather attractive place out in Surrey. Will you come out there with me and see her?"
"Why, if you think she'd like it, of course I would be delighted to come, but...."
"She'd love it," Stephen stated positively. "Will you come on Sunday?"
"But that's the daj^ after tomorrow, and she doesn't even know yet that I exist," protested Thea, with a confused recollection of "poor mummie's" reproachful dismay if she had ever suggested bringing anyone nome, even with plenty of previous warning.
'^'That's all right. I usually go down there on Sundays and I quite often take a visitor with me. Do come."
The second collection of 3 great novels by Mary Burchell Page 46