Russell said, “To be sure,” with another laugh and went away. He sent Gurdy the notices from the Baltimore papers after “Todgers Intrudes” began its week there and with them a note: “Miss Boyle came down for the opening. She is still sure this is a great play. Maternal feeling. Rand seems nervous and loses his lines a good deal. He is probably ashamed of himself. His English accent peels off now and then and he talks flat Middle West American,” but the same mail brought a letter from Olive Ilden, written at Denver, and this maddened Gurdy, as last proof of Margot’s inconsequence. “Dear Gurdy, The reaction has started. She is now certain that Rand planned the whole filthy trick. She is so angry that there is nothing left unsaid. He is a cheap bounder and a slacker etc. An actor can not be anything else, she says. Everything is Mark’s fault or mine for leaving her alone in Philadelphia. Do try to pity her a little, old man. She has made a fearful fool of herself and knows it. The whole thing is still horrible to me. I wish Mark had more humour or more cold blood. Anything to help him through. I keep trying to remember a quotation from Webster I threw at his head once. ‘These be the fair rewards of those that love.’ It may be from Shakespeare. Did you try to argue him out of making the production in New York? That would be your logical attitude. But do take care of him.” Gurdy tore the note up and went to pull on his riding clothes. The frost had melted. Mark wanted a ride in the warm park. The boy thought proudly that Mark hadn’t complained. He seemed quietly busy, arranging advertisements for “Captain Salvador” which toured New England after its week of Boston. Rumours of a triumph crept ahead of the play. Its success, its investiture of light and colour would soothe Mark while he still needed soothing. Gurdy rattled downstairs and Mark laughed at him, “You look mighty well in ridin’ things, son!” “So do you,” said Gurdy, in all honesty, and watched Mark beam, settling his boots, the fit of his black coat. They rode into the empty Park. Mark talked about horses and then about Gurdy’s brothers. One of them wanted to be a soldier. “You did that with your scar and all,” Mark said. “Funny how easy a kid gets an ambition. Only thirteen. He’ll get over it.” “What did you want to be when you were thirteen, sonny?” Gurdy strove to remember. He had probably wanted to be a theatrical manager. He said, “I wanted to be a barber when I was nine or ten, I remember that. And then I wanted to be an aviator--and now I want to write plays....” “Hurry and write me a good one, brother.”