The train started. Henry waited till they got out into the daylight. Then he launched his news, watching carefully for their reaction. "You'll never guess who rang me up today," said he. "The great Fishbein. In person, as they love to say. Speaking from Hollywood. He talked for pretty nearly half an hour. It seems this brat of mine, Joyce well, they want to make a child star of her. 'The child star of the next seven years,' he said."
The others laughed heartily. "Can you beat that?" said Cartwright. "For sheer unmitigated gall!"
"Probably thought you'd jump at it," said Bates. "When I think of what they do to books of ours!"
"I can see Sanford as a screen daddy," said Cartwright. "Especially in the later years. What did you tell him rather see your daughter dead at your feet, or what?"
"Well," said Henry, "I said I'd think it over."
"Oh, but . . . Well, of course, it's your business, old man," said Cartwright. "But I shouldn't think it required much thought"
"My reaction was exactly the same as yours at first," said Henry. "All the same, he mentioned and I imagine the man is not a downright liar he mentioned two or three million dollars. Yon have to think a bit before you turn that sort of thing down. For someone else, mark you, not for yourself."
"It's a lot of money," said Cartwright. "They don't want an old male actor, I suppose butlers and clergymen? I'd go like a shot. But a kid . . ."
"I was rather impressed by one or two things Fishbein had to say," said Henry. "The man's no fool, you know. He quite agreed about some of these child stars. He says it's their god-awful parents. Apparently the studios are very careful about the brats. Psychiatrists in attendance . . ."
"Oh, hell!" said Bates, 'listen, I've been out there twice, about books."
"But it shows the right spirit," argued Henry. "He told me another thing. It seems the I.Q. of these youngsters is always very notably above the average."
"So much the worse," said Bates, "for I.Q."
"I.Q.'s not everything," said Cartwright. "What do they grow up like?"
"It's too early to know," said Henry. "Maybe very well. After all, it's a form of experience. If a child has that sort of talent..."
"Oh, come!" said Bates.
"She has a right to develop in her own way," said Henry obstinately. "After all, my wife and I would be there."
"Henry," said Bates, "you sound like some of our authors when they get offers to go out there. They have it all worked out on paper, poor bastards!"
"I think there's a difference," said Henry. "Two or three millions is..."
"Quantity makes no difference," said Bates, "when the quality of the money is lousy. It's not real money, Henry. It's dead leaves; that's what it is."
"Or sour grapes," said Henry, glancing at their silent companion for approval. "I feel that Joyce, when she is old enough, might view it differently. I must say I don't care much for your reaction. The same goes for you, Cartwright. If you're sincere, you're about ten years behind the times. There's such a thing as being narrow-minded, stuffy. Film people in these days are very often people of culture. After all, they're artists, in a way."
"They say money talks," said Bates. "I think I can hear it. Henry, it has an ugly voice."
"So has envy," said Henry. "I must say I . . ." He broke off. "What do you think?" said he to the silent man.
"I don't know," said that worthy, rubbing his lantern jaw, and twisting his mourn abominably. "I don't know. For Christ's sake! I earn much about what you fellows do. God damn it! I live in a sort of cottage four rooms. That's all I could afford. Why? Because I wanted it solid. Try to buy a bit of seasoned wood, that's all. Just try it. You talk about children, wives, God knows what. How the hell do you manage it? Probably eat margarine. Everything's margarine, pretty nearly. An old woman cooks for me I said, 'Don't give me any of that stuff; I don't like it. I don't like to be insulted. Don't give me food out of cans, don't give me food made with something-eeta, or something-ola.' I want leather on my feet and I want wool on my back. That's all. I'd as soon have them spit in my face as sell me their damned -olas and -eetas. It costs me all I earn to run a four-room shack. Wives! Families! Taps to Hollywood! Smells of margarine to me."
After this surprising outburst, he relapsed into his habitual silence. Obviously he had not heard, or understood, anything about the stupendous offer. It had been strained out, as by a filter of prejudice. The train began to slow up, approaching Tarrytown. "Well, gentlemen," said Henry with acridity, as he collected his things. "If I'd been in doubt before, you would have made my mind up for me. Thank you. And goodbye! I shall accept Mr. Fishbein's offer tomorrow." Compressing his lips, he nodded a bitter farewell.
Bates and Cartwright, both a little red about the gills, responded as stiffly, sitting tight, waiting for him to go first out of the train. The lantern-jawed man looked at him in obvious bewilderment. Henry looked away. He got off the train.
He drove home, still fuming. "Hello, darling!" said Edna.
"Hello, Daddy!" cried little Joyce, running toward him, all smiles and dimples, arms out, giving her curls a twitch it really looked damned effective.
"Hello, daffodil!" said he, gathering her up. "Did you like California, honey? Would you like to go back there?"
"What's that?" said Edna.
"Never mind," said he. "Look, it's seven already. That child should be in bed. She wants to keep that dancing quality."
"Listen," began Edna.
"I can't," said he. "I've a letter to get off. I can just make it. Have dinner held up for once, there's an angel."
He went to the writing desk in his bedroom, irritated into an overmastering urge to do something definite, final He needed to deliver just one kick that would shatter the world of Westchester and museums. "Petty, highbrow snobbery!" said he to himself as he took up his pen.
He wrote to his chief at the museum. The letter started as a formal resignation, with the request that some over-due leave might coincide with the normal period of notice, so that Henry need not appear at the office again.
Henry leaned back and surveyed these formal paragraphs, and found them rather negative. "It was not thus," he thought, "that the yellow waistcoated should bid farewell to the grey minded." Curling his lip, he added an urbane and scarifying word or two, such as would leave no doubt at all as to the sort of man they were dealing with.
He hurried downstairs. "Can dinner come on?" said Edna. "It will be spoiled."
"Let us bring it in ourselves," said he. "I want May to rush down to the village with this. She can just get the mail."
Soon they were seated at the table. "Henry," said Edna, "you needn't go on making cracks about that business."
"What business?" said he. "What cracks?"
"The way you talked about her 'dancing quality,'" said Edna. "I said this morning you were right. Today, back here, I've been thinking about it, and I'm sorrier than ever. But, Henry, some people can do a fool thing once, and it doesn't mean they don't take standards and things absolutely seriously. It's just being a weak woman. I'm glad you're not a weak woman, Hen."
"Edna," said Henry. "There's such a thing as instinct. From our point of view our old point of view you were wrong. Because you did what you did without knowing certain things that justified it. As a matter of fact, I've been investigating the whole thing today, and I've discovered that your instinct was perfectly tight."