It was Mike Jordan’s party. He had given it to celebrate Nancy’s return. Mike had not asked Gil to join these home-town friends, but Phyllis had managed to bring him along without embarrassing either Gil or his host.
Nancy had just seen Mike’s play. “It’s great,” she said. “It’s honest and beautiful, and it’s you, Mike; I can see you in every line.”
“It’s you, too, Nancy. Didn’t you notice that I took all your advice?”
“Nancy helped you with the play?” asked Gil.
“She saved it from being a dreary and morbid little phony. And a flop.”
“Nancy has a great sense of theater, real intuition,” Phyllis added. “She might have been a great actress.”
Nancy laughed. She knew it was cheap flattery but she enjoyed being the center of attention.
Fred Miller pulled out his watch. “I don’t like to break up this party, but—”
“Must we?” Phyllis interrupted. “Nancy’s just come home and we’re having such a good time.”
“I can’t help it if I’m tired, dear. Your friends must understand that a businessman can’t burn the midnight oil like Bohemians.”
Phyllis glanced quickly at Gil. He turned to Fred Miller. “Why don’t you go on and let me bring Phyllis home?”
“That’s kind of you, Jones. Thanks so much. Good night, everyone.”
Farewells were curt. No one bothered to watch Fred go. Gil leaned toward Nancy, whispering some compliment that made her laugh. Phyllis approved.
Presently Gil turned to Mike Jordan: “I know you don’t like my new play, but, frankly, I’m quite mad about it, and so is Phyllis. I’m sure that if Nancy’s critical sense is as sound as you say, she might be able to suggest whatever changes our play needs.”
“Now, Gil,” Phyllis pouted, “we mustn’t be selfish. Nancy’s only just got home and she wouldn’t have time to read it now.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Nancy said. “Bring the manuscript around, will you?”
Mike Jordan sulked. It was contrary of him to be annoyed with Nancy, when his bad temper should have been visited upon Phyllis and Gil. Mike was less distressed by their opportunism than by Nancy’s failure to see through their clumsy ruses. He meant to chide her.
As they rode uptown in a taxi Nancy said, “Did you ever see such an attractive man as Gil Jones?”
“He’s a heel.”
Nancy laughed. “How you loathe handsome men, Mike.”
Mike retreated sullenly to his corner of the cab, deciding that if Nancy was so dull as to let a good-looking ham pull the wool over her eyes, she deserved a lesson. Nancy, enjoying his jealousy, continued to tease him. He lost his temper and reminded her of her faults and the mistakes she had made with other men. The evening was a failure.
The next morning Mike’s agent called and told him that his Hollywood deal had been settled. Mike could get the salary he asked if he would leave immediately for California. The studio wanted him to rewrite a play which had been rewritten only eight times.
Naturally, he spent a frantic day between his agent’s office and the bank and department stores. He closed his apartment and refurnished his wardrobe as though California were a desert island. But he did not intend to desert Nancy. At half-past five he rang her doorbell. The apartment was still cluttered with the woven baskets, silverware, and serapes. The maid, who knew him well, told him to go straight to the living-room.
Gilbert and Phyllis were there. Gil was reading the play. They resented the interruption and were not at all cordial.
“I’m going to Hollywood tomorrow,” Mike announced.
“How nice for you,” Nancy said.
Mike felt that she was glad to have him out of the way...
A few weeks later Gil handed in his resignation to the manager of Mike’s play, and announced that he was appearing in Jackstraw, A Romance of Cavalier Maryland. A new producer had come to Broadway; her name was Nancy Miller.
Apparently the radiance of Gil’s personality so dazzled her that she had lost all critical judgment. It was a very bad play, and the author, who had come from Moline for rehearsals, refused to rewrite a line. They got Alexandra Hartman for the feminine lead and, while she gave the play some distinction, she was a hellcat at rehearsals. Gil was so busy appeasing his leading lady, convincing Nancy that they needed more money, and wheedling the author to change a line, that he hadn’t a moment for Phyllis.
She was not allowed in the theater during rehearsals. That was Miss Hartman’s unbreakable rule. Although Phyllis had worked so hard to get the show produced, found a backer, and listened to all the early discussions, she was now an outsider, brushed aside with a mechanical smile and polite promise when she waited in the lobby for Gil. She consoled herself with the hope of his gratitude in the happy future, after the show was on and a hit. Some day, she fancied, Gil would take her in his arms and whisper gratefully, “How can I repay you, darling Phyllis, for all that I owe you?”
They were opening in Baltimore, the historical scene of the play’s action. Phyllis bought herself a new outfit, and was about to reserve a seat on the train, when Fred Miller put his foot down. They had the worst fight of their marriage, and Fred finally said, “The trouble with you is that you think you’re Nancy, who can spend a thousand dollars on every whim.”
The rebuke defeated Phyllis. It was like an echo of her grandmother’s lament. As long as she could remember, Phyllis had been reminded that she could not expect the privileges which Nancy took as her right. She had no money of her own. Fred supported her. When he said, “I won’t have you spending money on trains and hotels to see a show you can see here in a couple of weeks,” she had to submit.
After the Baltimore opening Fred read the reviews and said, “Aren’t you glad you didn’t spend the money? They say it’s the worst show in twenty years.”
Anyone but Nancy would have been discouraged by the reviews. Instead of closing, she put more money into the production, extended the road tour, made drastic revisions in the script, and recast several parts. The author, frightened by the critics, agreed to revisions, but was not able to rewrite, and a play doctor was hired. They took the show on a nine-week tour. Gil was too busy to write a post card to Phyllis.
Fred Miller died suddenly of pneumonia. Phyllis had warned him against going to the office with a severe cold, but Fred always had colds, and if he’d quit work every time he sniffled he would never have held a job. He tried to nurse it at night with hot whisky, aspirin, and all the home remedies which he thought as effective as anything a doctor could prescribe. Phyllis was sleeping on a cot in the living-room. One morning she went into the bedroom and found him unconscious. He died at the hospital twenty hours later.
She was very brave, managed everything, took the body home to his parents and the family plot. Half the town attended the funeral, and they said that Phyllis, pale and touching in her black garments, was the prettiest widow they had ever seen. Fred had left her quite a lot of money. She had no idea that the big insurance premiums which she had always resented would bring her a small fortune.
Jackstraw had meanwhile come to New York. Poor Phyllis, cheated of rehearsals and the out-of-town opening, missed the first night, too. She was determined to see it on the night of her return to New York. Mourning or no mourning, she had her duty to her cousin Nancy and to her friend Gil. She still felt close to the play and cherished the memory that she had been Gil’s first audience for it. This thought gave her strength and hope, and as she sat beside the window of the dining car she decided that she would not telephone Gil that day, but would see the play alone and afterward surprise him in his dressing-room.