Full Bloom The family council prudently allowed Mark to adopt his brother’s orphan, Margaret. He sometimes borrowed Gurdy Bernamer to keep the dark child company in his New York flat. By 1905 the borrowing settled into a habit. Gurdy provided activity for a French nurse and then for an English governess despatched by Olive Ilden. He was a silent, restless creature. He disliked motorcars for his own unrevealed reason that they resembled the hearses of his uncle’s funeral. He had a prejudice against small Margaret because she looked like her dead mother, an objectionable person smelling of orange water, and because Mark made a fuss over the child. He learned to read newspapers, copying Mark’s breakfast occupation, and in September, 1907, noted that Carlson and Walling would tonight inaugurate their partnership by the presentation of “Red Winter” at their new 45th Street Theatre. “Inaugurate” charmed Gurdy. It conveyed an image of Mark and the bony Mr. Carlson doing something with a monstrous auger. Mark had for ever stopped acting in May, would henceforth “manage.” Curiosity pulled Gurdy from the window seat of his playroom in Mark’s new house on 55th Street. He waited for a moment when the governess, Miss Converse, was scolding young Margaret and wouldn’t see him slide down the hall stairs. He scuttled west, then south and navigated Broadway until he reached the mad corner of 45th Street where a gentleman took him by the collar of his blouse and halted him. “Where are you going?” Gurdy recognized a quiet character who came to luncheons now and then. He said, “H’lo, Mr. Frohman,” dutifully and looked about for the theatre. The stooping man detained him gravely. “I thought you weren’t old enough for shows.” “I’m looking for Mark.” Mr. Frohman chuckled, leaning on a stick. He said, “He’s in his office.” “Where’s that?” Gurdy stared past the pointing stick and saw a cream face of columns and windows. He saw the stone above a ring of heads. People were gaping at his calm acquaintance as if this plump, tired man was a kicking horse. He remembered civility and asked, “How’s your rheumatism?” “Better,” said Mr. Frohman and limped away.