"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 put 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 taxi had just stopped at that moment, and a large uniformed attendant was already holding open the door. But Stephen seemed to have no intention of getting out until this interesting point was settled—and settled in the way he wanted.
"Well, if you're sure it's all right—of course, I'd love it."
"Good," Stephen said. It seemed to be his usual comment when he had got his own way. And then he jumped out, handed Thea out of the taxi, settled with the driver with what appeared to be jubilant generosity, and followed Thea into the Drilliantly lighted lounge.
The rest of the evening was, if possible, even more delightful than the first half, Thea thought. The lights, the perfect food, the gaiety, the champagne were all fascinating adjuncts to a wonderful occasion.
And then afterward they danced together, and Thea discovered the exact difference between dancing in "dancing class" and dancing with a very personable young man to a first-class band.
By the time he took her home, Thea felt like an experienced habituee of London nightlife. And as he eot out of the taxi to say good night to her outside Geraldine s apartment, she felt that Stephen was one of her best, if not her oldest, friends. "I'll come for you on Sunday about eleven," he promised.
"Yes. But please telephone or write to your mother first," Thea begged. "I know my mother would have had a fit if unexpected visitors had appeared like that."
"All right. I promise, Stephen told her with a laugh. And he waved away her eager thanks for the evening's enjoyment. "I enjoyed it at least as much, myself," he assured her. "It's a long while since my worthy uncle has done me such a eood turn."
Thea was slightly relieved to find that, late though it was, Geraldine had not yet returned. And the sleepy Denham, who admitted her, contented herself with asking if she had had a good time, and expressing satisfaction that she had.
"That was Mr. Yarlon's nephew, you know," Thea told her.
And Denham's unexpected comment was, "Then no wonder he looked a nice young man.''
Thea, who already had her hand on the handle of her bedroom door, turned at that.
"You like Mr. Varlon, don't you, Denham?" she said curiously.
"Yes, miss. I like him. No one ever went to him in trouble and got turned away," Denham said.
Long after she had undressed and reverently hung up her yellow dress and gone to bed, Thea lay awake and thought not only of her dazzling evening, but also of Denham's last remark.
So that was how he appeared to some people, thought Thea. It was something to set against the other things that were said.
The next morning Geraldine made only the most casual inquiries as to how she had enjoyed her evening. On the other hand, her astonishing generosity seemed stillnot at an end.
"You'll need some sort of an allowance until you start earning for yourself," she remarked. "What are you used to having?"
"Geraldine, it's most frightfully generous of you," Thea exclaimed, for some reason feeling much more uncomfortable than she would have believed possible. "You do understand that I mean to pay it all back gradually, as soon as I am earning, don't you? '
Geraldine shrugged, with an indifference that Thea felt
was positively saintly after what Stephen had said about her particular weakness.
"Well, if you like to regard it in that light, that's your affair. It will probably make you more economical and save you from losing your head,*' Geraldine agreed. "I'll put fifty pounds in the bank for you, and you'd better draw on it as you need it and tell me when it's gone. I can't undertake to fit you out entirely from my own wardrobe, but I daresay one or two additions to what you already have will keep you going."
Thea said that no doubt they would, and felt that Stephen must really have done Geraldine less than justice when he spoke of her. On the whole, the most likely explanation seemed to be that Geraldine felt genuinely remorseful for the shabby way in which she had originally intended to treat her young cou
sin, and that this was her way of making up for it.
Thea thanked her afresh and then told her about Stephen's invitation for Sunday.
"Oh, Jeannette Dorley's boy? He's quite nice in a harmless way," observed Geraldine, in a tone that would have prevented anyone from wishing to know any more about nim. "I suppose he would be rather your sort. Yes, go by all means, if you want to."
She sounded as though she really cared very little what Thea did with herself—which was probably the case.
When Stephen came for her on Sunday, Thea had been dressed and waiting for half an hour. Not that he was late, but her own eager anticipation made her early.
Geraldine was understood to be still sleeping, as she had been up very late the night before; and as they crept out of the apartment making as little noise as possible, Thea had the impression that they were fellow conspirators in some delightful adventure.
Stephen's somewhat battered two-seater was waiting outside the building, and he indicated it with mingled pride and apology.
"She's no beauty but she's tough," he explained. "And faithful unto death—hers or mine. Do you mind driving in an open car?"
"No," Thea said. "My experience of cars is not so
extensive that I can afford to be choosy. And you seem to have plenty of rugs.' *
It was a clear, bright day, but comparatively few people were on the road, and it seemed to Thea that they skimmed along very happily in a world that was practically their own. He seemed interested in almost anythmg that she cared to tell him about herself, and she found herself describing her life at school, her holidays with "poor mummie'* and the sudden change that had come into her life.
"Then you're really quite on your own, as Lin said?"
"Oh, yes. But I seem to be acquiring some very nice friends, Thea pointed out with a smile.
He thanked her for that with an answering smile, and she added, "Did you know that your uncle took it on himself to come to the station and meet me because he thought Td be scared and miserable left on my own? Geraldine didn't want—well, she wasn't prepared to do anything about it. And so, as she'd shown him my letter, he just took things in his own hands and came.''
"Did he?" Stephen whistled and looked amused. "Tell mother that. It will please her. In theory she disapproves of lots of things about Lin, but she adores him really, and he's been very good to her ever since my father died when I was fourteen."
Harlequin Omnibus: Take Me with You, Choose What You Will, Meant for Each Other Page 46