A headwaiter lifted a “Reserved” sign from a table across the floor. Cora Boyle and her husband appeared in the light threaded by cigarette smoke. The actress draped a green and black skirt carelessly, refused to dance with a British officer in a trim pantomime, bowed slowly to Mark who was taken with fright. She’d want to talk about this drivelling play and before her slight, quiet husband. He slipped a bill under the edge of Russell’s plate. “Bring Olive back to the hotel will you Russell? I’m all in. ’Night, Olive.” His retreat through the smoky tables was comic. Russell fingered his chin. Olive ended by laughing, “He’s ridiculously timid about her.” The director patted his bald forehead and drank some coffee. He said, “It happens that he’s got some reason. Miss Boyle’s bad tempered and an inveterate liar. She’s fond of her husband and she seems to think this comedy will have a New York run. Mr. Walling means to let it die on the road, naturally. She won’t like that. She’ll talk. Her voice will be loud all up and down Broadway.” “But--surely he’s callous to that sort of thing?” “Do you see anything callous about him? I don’t.” The director nodded to the floating of Margot’s skirt. “This is the first time I’ve ever directed a play put on to please a débutante, Lady Ilden.--No, Mr. Walling seems mighty sensitive to gossip.--And Cora Boyle’s in a strong position. She’s a woman--obviously--and she can make a good yarn. Spite, and so on. She’s quite capable of giving out interviews on the subject. She can’t hurt Mr. Walling but she might cause any quantity of gossip,--which he couldn’t very well answer. She can play the woman wronged, you see?” “What a nation of woman worshippers you are!” “Were,” said Russell, “We’re getting over it.” “I don’t see any signs of it.” Russell said, “You can’t send two million men into countries where women--well, admit that they’re human, not goddesses, anyhow, without getting a reaction. My wife’s a lawyer. She helped a young fellow--an ex-soldier--out of some trouble the other day and he told her she was almost as nice as a foreigner--Ten years ago if Cora Boyle had wanted to have a fight with Mr. Walling she could have taken the line that he was jealous of Rand and she’d have found newspapers that would print front page columns about it. She’d get about two paragraphs now.--But she probably has better sense. Beastly handsome, isn’t she?” “Very--brutta bestia bella. Gurdy tells me she’s paid a thousand dollars a day to play Camille for the cinema. Why?” “Oh ... she’s the kind of thing a lot of respectable middle aged women adore, I think.--Look at them.” There were many women in the rim of tables. They stared at the flaring green and black gown, at the exhibited bawdry of gold wrought calves, at the feathers of the waving, profuse fan. There was an attitude of furtive adventure in the turn of heads. They stared, disapproved, perhaps envied.