“Where have you been?” he said. “I couldn’t think what had become of you.”
She looked at him curiously.
“Did you miss me, George?”
“Miss you? Of course I did. My work’s been going all to pieces since you went away.”
“I only came back last night. I’m in the new piece at the Madison. Gee, I’m tired, George! We’ve been rehearsing all day.”
He took her by the arm.
“Come along and have some supper. You look worn out. By Jove, Peggy, it’s good seeing you again! Can you walk as far as Rector’s. or shall I carry you?”
“Guess I can walk that far. But Rector’s? Has your rich uncle died and left you a fortune, George?”
“Don’t you worry, Peggy. This is an occasion. I thought I was never going to see you again. I’ll buy you the whole hotel, if you like.”
“Just supper’ll do, I guess. You’re getting quite the rounder, George.”
“You bet I am. There are all sorts of sides to my character you’ve never so much as dreamed of.”
They seemed to know Peggy at Rector’s. Paul, the head waiter, beamed upon her paternally. One or two men turned and looked after her as she passed. The waiters smiled slight but friendly smiles. Rutherford, intent on her, noticed none of these things.
Despite her protests, he ordered an elaborate and expensive supper. He was particular about the wine. The waiter, who had been doubtful about him, was won over, and went off to execute the order, reflecting that it was never safe to judge a man by his clothes, and that Rutherford was probably one of these eccentric young millionaires who didn’t care how they dressed.
“Well?” said Peggy, when he had finished.
“Well?” said Rutherford.
“You’re looking brown, George.”
“I’ve been away in the Catskills.”
“Still as strong on the rube proposition as ever?”
“Yes. But Broadway has its points, too.”
“Oh, you’re beginning to see that? Gee, I’m glad to be back. I’ve had enough of the Wild West. If anybody ever tries to steer you west of Eleventh Avenue, George, don’t you go. There’s nothing doing. How have you been making out at your writing stunt?”
“Pretty well. But I wanted you. I was lost without my mascot. I’ve got a story in this month’s Wilson’s. A long story, and paid accordingly. That’s why I’m able to go about giving suppers to great actresses.”
“I read it on the train,” said Peggy. “It’s dandy. Do you know what you ought to do, George? You ought to turn it into a play. There’s a heap of money in plays.”
“I know. But who wants a play by an unknown man?”