In their double bedroom at the New Willard Margot talked jauntily of “Todgers Intrudes,” until Olive fell asleep wondering why the girl should interpret amiable laughter as the shout of success. In the morning two newspapers arrived with breakfast. The critics praised the acting and both sniffed at the play. Olive read the columns over her tea. Both critics dealt kindly with Rand. One thought his manner resembled that of Cyril Maude, the other said that he imitated George Arliss. Margot came trailing a green robe from the bathtub and stood pressed against the brass bedfoot reading the comments. The sun redoubled on her silver girdle and the numerous polychrome tassels of the foolish, charming drapery inside which her body stirred before she cried, “How American! Thin! It’s no thinner than that rot dad has running at the Forty Fifth Street!” “My darling Margot, that’s thin American comedy. It’s something national, comprehensible. As for ‘Todgers,’ why--why should you expect a pack of American war office clerks and provincials to care whether a Baron precedes an Earl or no? I can’t help being surprised that so many of them seemed to know what it was all about! The play is thin--horribly thin. I’m sure it did well at home on account of Maurice Ealy’s following. The critics say rather nice things about Rand, all things considered.... Well, were you impressed with him last night? Do you still think he’s a fine actor?” Margot tilted her face toward the ceiling and the sun made a visard across her narrowed eyes. She twisted the silver girdle between her hands and stood silent. Olive felt the final barrier between creatures, suddenly and keenly. She had lived in intimacy with the girl for five years. Here was a strange mind revolving under the black, carven hair and the mask of sun. “No, I didn’t think him very good, last night. Nervous.--And perhaps the play did seem rather thin.... But it’ll do better in New York. More civilized people, there.” Olive lifted her breakfast tray to the bedside table and thought. Then her patience snapped, before the girl’s sunny and motionless certitude. She said, “New York! Do you think Mark will risk bringing this poor ghost of a thing to New York? Hardly! He told me last night it will be played in Philadelphia and Baltimore, then he’ll discard it.--You’re silly, dearest! The play’s wretched and Rand’s no better than a hundred other young leading men I’ve seen. He appeals to you for some reason or other. He seems very, very feeble to me. He has no virility, no--” The silver girdle broke between the tawny hands. Margot’s face rippled. She said loudly, “This is all Gurdy! He doesn’t like the play! He’s made dad dislike it. He--”