"But that's just what he told me!"
"I could have guessed it, darling. And I don't suppose you were the first, either… I had two lessons on the spot, and I've had another two today; and if he can teach anyone anything worth knowing about acting, then I can train ducks to write shorthand. I was so dumb that anyone with an ounce of artistic feeling would have thrown me out of the window, but when I left him this afternoon he almost hugged me and told me he could hardly wait to finish the course before he rushed out to show me to Gilbert Miller."
She moved her head a little, gazing at him with big sober eyes.
"He was just the same with me, too. Oh, I've been such a fool!"
"We're all fools in our own way," said the Saint consolingly. "Boys like Homer are my job, so they don't bother me. On the other hand, you've no idea what a fool I can be with soft lights and sweet music. Come on to dinner and I'll show you."
"But now you've given Quarterstone a thousand dollars, and what are you going to do about it?"
"Wait for the next act of the stirring drama."
The next act was not long in developing. Simon had two more of Mr. Quarterstone's special, personal, private, exclusive lessons the next day, and two more the day after — Mr. Homer Quarterstone was no apostle of the old-fashioned idea of making haste slowly, and by getting in two lessons daily he was able to double his temporary income, which then chalked up at the very pleasing figure of two hundred dollars per diem, minus the overhead, of which the brassy blonde was not the smallest item. But this method of gingering up the flow of revenue also meant that its duration was reduced from ten days to five, and during a lull in the next day's first hour (Diction, Gesture and Facial Expression) he took the opportunity of pointing out that Success, while already certain, could never be too certain or too great, and therefore that a supplementary series of lessons in the Art and Technique of the Motion Picture, while involving only a brief delay, could only add to the magnitude of Mr. Tombs's ultimate inevitable triumph.
On this argument, for the first time, Mr. Tombs disagreed.
"I want to see for myself whether I've mastered the first lessons," he said. "If I could get a small part in a play, just to try myself out…"
He was distressingly obstinate, and Mr. Quarterstone, either because he convinced himself that it would only be a waste of time, or because another approach to his pupil's remaining nineteen thousand dollars seemed just as simple, finally yielded. He made an excuse to leave the studio for a few minutes, and Simon knew that the next development was on its way.
It arrived in the latter part of the last hour (Declamation with Gestures, Movement and Facial Expression — The Complete Classical Scene).
Mr. Quarterstone was demonstrating.
"To be," trumpeted Mr. Quarterstone, gazing ceilingwards with an ecstatic expression, the chest thrown out, the arms slightly spread, "or not to be." Mr. Quarterstone ceased to be. He slumped, the head bowed, the arms hanging listlessly by the sides, the expression doleful. "That — is the question." Mr. Quarterstone pondered it, shaking his head. The suspense was awful. He elaborated the idea. "Whether'tis nobler" — Mr. Quarterstone drew himself nobly up, the chin lifted, the right arm turned slightly across the body, the forearm parallel with the ground — "in the mind" — he clutched his brow, where he kept his mind — "to suffer" — he clutched his heart, where he did his suffering — "the slings" — he stretched out his left hand for the slings — "and arrows" — he flung out his right hand for the arrows — "of outrageous fortune" — Mr. Quarterstone rolled the insult lusciously around his mouth and spat it out with defiance — "or to take arms" — he drew himself up again, the shoulders squared, rising slightly on tiptoe — "against a sea of troubles" — his right hand moved over a broad panorama, undulating symbolically — "and by opposing" — the arms rising slightly from the elbow, fists clenched, shoulders thrown back, chin drawn in — "end them!" — the forearms striking down again with a fierce chopping movement, expressive of finality and knocking a calendar off the table.
"Excuse me," said the brassy blonde, with her head poking round the door. "Mr. Urlaub is here."
"Tchah!" said Mr. Quarterstone, inspiration wounded in mid-flight. "Tell him to wait."
"He said—"
Mr. Quarterstone's eyes dilated. His mouth opened. His hands lifted a little from his sides, the fingers tense and parted rather like plump claws, the body rising. He was staring at the Saint.
"Wait!" he cried. "Of course! The very thing! The very man you've got to meet! One of the greatest producers in the world today! Your chance!"
He leapt a short distance off the ground and whirled on the blonde, his arm flung out, pointing quiveringly.
"Send him in!"
Simon looked wildly breathless.
"But — but will he—"
"Of course he will! You've only got to remember what I've taught you. And sit down. We must be calm."
Mr. Quarterstone sank into a chair, agitatedly looking calm, as Urlaub bustled in. Urlaub trotted quickly across the room.
"Ah, Homer."
"My dear Waldemar! How is everything?"
"Terrible! I came to ask for your advice…"
Mr. Urlaub leaned across the desk. He was a smallish, thin, bouncy man with a big nose and sleek black hair. His suit fitted him as tightly as an extra skin, and the stones in his tiepin and in his rings looked enough like diamonds to look like diamonds. He moved as if he were hung on springs, and his voice was thin and spluttery like the exhaust of an anemic motorcycle.
"Niementhal has quit. Let me down at the last minute. He wanted to put some goddam gigolo into the lead. Some ham that his wife's got hold of. I said to him, 'Aaron, your wife is your business and this play is my business.' I said, 'I don't care if it hurts your wife's feelings and I don't care if she gets mad at you, I can't afford to risk my reputation on Broadway and my investment in this play by putting that ham in the lead.' I said, 'Buy her a box of candy or a diamond bracelet or anything or send her to Paris or something, but don't ask me to make her happy by putting that gigolo in this play.' So he quit. And me with everything set, and the rest of the cast ready to start rehearsing next week, and he quits. He said, 'All right, then use your own money.' I said, 'You know I've got fifty thousand dollars in this production already, and all you were going to put in is fifteen thousand, and for that you want me to risk my money and my reputation by hiring that ham. I thought you said you'd got a good actor.' 'Well, you find yourself a good actor and fifteen thousand dollars,' he says, and he quits. Cold. And I can't raise another cent — you know how I just tied up half a million to save those aluminum shares."
"That's tough, Waldemar," said Mr. Quarterstone anxiously. "Waldemar, that's tough!.. Ah — by the way — pardon me — may I introduce a student of mine? Mr. Tombs…"
Urlaub turned vaguely, apparently becoming aware of the Saint's presence for the first time. He started forward with a courteously extended hand as the Saint rose.
But their hands did not meet at once. Mr. Urlaub's approaching movement died slowly away, as if paralysis had gradually overtaken him, so that he finally came to rest just before they met, like a clockwork toy that had run down. His eyes became fixed, staring. His mouth opened.
Then, very slowly, he revived himself. He pushed his hand onwards again and grasped the Saint's as if it were something precious, shaking it slowly and earnestly.
"A pupil of yours, did you say, Homer?" he asked in an awestruck voice.
"That's right. My star pupil, in fact. I might almost say…"
Mr. Urlaub paid no attention to what Quarterstone might almost have said. With his eyes still staring, he darted suddenly closer, peered into the Saint's face, took hold of it, turned it from side to side, just as Quarterstone had once done. Then he stepped back and stared again, prowling round the Saint like a dog prowling round a tree. Then he stopped.