only bud of promise he had been able to detect in the area; the rest were all blasted. Everybody was “artistic,” and nobody was an artist. “Yes,” he nodded. “Practical experience of the theater. That’s the thing. I don’t mean exits and entrances—anybody can manage that side of it. I mean a feeling for the medium—the grand imposture of the whole thing. It’s a make-believe world that the layman doesn’t get the hang of. Nobody can write a real drama who hasn’t smelled the grease paint; it’s like somebody composing music who’s never played an instrument.” Martha gave a deprecating shrug. “I don’t know,” she said. “Actors and actresses have written some terrible plays. Bernhardt, remember?” “Ah,” said Miles, “but there was Shakespeare, and Molière and O’Neill.” “On the other hand, there was Shaw,” she answered. “And Congreve and Wilde.” “Wilde was a lifelong actor,” protested Miles.
The others had turned again to watch them. Unconsciously, they had both raised their voices, as if they were alone together and the rest of the room were blocked out. “What was that, Miles?” wondered Warren. “Say that again.” “Yes, let us in on it,” pleaded Jane. But Martha had risen, with a little grimace. “We must go,” she said. “Oh gee,” sighed Warren. “Just when it’s getting interesting.” But Martha shook her head. John Sinnott had fetched her cloak and was on his way to her with it like a galleon. Dolly Lamb stood up. Miles frowned as he watched young Sinnott put the cloak on Martha’s shoulders. He himself, he thought sourly, ought to have been the first to leave. Yet he had been having a fine time, sparring with Martha, before the others broke it up. It was like a bit of the old days. But it was frustrating to talk to her like that, with Jane Coe’s big ears flapping and Warren’s nose twitching for crumbs from the banquet, Helen looking tense and worried on his behalf, and John Sinnott’s warrior’s eye on them and his biceps flexed to defend Martha. Miles rose and stretched. “Maybe I’ll come to see you one of these days,” he said to Martha, with a slight yawn. Martha seemed taken aback. Was it possible that she was afraid of him still? “Umm,” she said, noncommittally.
Everybody was on the move, all at once. They were picking their way out to the cars, guided by Warren’s flashlight. Miles stood in the parking space, waiting for Sinnott to move his old open Ford out of the way of his Cadillac. Helen and the baby were in the car, and Miles was watching the girl painter drive off first in her jeep, when, in the glare of Sinnott’s headlights, he became aware that Warren Coe was beside him, batting his eyes and wiggling his eyebrows and smiling an urgent question in the direction of Martha. For a minute, Miles could not divine what had got into him. Then he remembered the portrait. What Warren was saying in pantomime was that Miles should ask her, now, if it was all right for him to have it. Miles inwardly shrugged. Sober, he was not sure whether he wanted the painting, but he did not mind asking, just for the hell of it. He strolled up to the Sinnotts’ car and indicated to Martha that he wanted to speak to her. Martha rolled down her window. “I like that portrait of you,” he said in a casual tone. Martha’s eyebrows rose; she turned to her husband, who merely raced the engine. “Seriously?” she said in a lowered voice, looking back to where Warren was standing. “Seriously,” agreed Miles. “It’s far the best thing he’s done. In fact,” he continued, leaning his elbow on the little car’s window sash, “I’ve had the notion of buying it.” Martha stared. “You’re crazy,” she said. “Where would you put it?” She bit her lip. “Excuse me,” she corrected herself. “It’s none of my business.” “Warren tells me,” said Miles, “that he’d have to have your permission to sell it.”
Martha looked at her
The others had turned again to watch them. Unconsciously, they had both raised their voices, as if they were alone together and the rest of the room were blocked out. “What was that, Miles?” wondered Warren. “Say that again.” “Yes, let us in on it,” pleaded Jane. But Martha had risen, with a little grimace. “We must go,” she said. “Oh gee,” sighed Warren. “Just when it’s getting interesting.” But Martha shook her head. John Sinnott had fetched her cloak and was on his way to her with it like a galleon. Dolly Lamb stood up. Miles frowned as he watched young Sinnott put the cloak on Martha’s shoulders. He himself, he thought sourly, ought to have been the first to leave. Yet he had been having a fine time, sparring with Martha, before the others broke it up. It was like a bit of the old days. But it was frustrating to talk to her like that, with Jane Coe’s big ears flapping and Warren’s nose twitching for crumbs from the banquet, Helen looking tense and worried on his behalf, and John Sinnott’s warrior’s eye on them and his biceps flexed to defend Martha. Miles rose and stretched. “Maybe I’ll come to see you one of these days,” he said to Martha, with a slight yawn. Martha seemed taken aback. Was it possible that she was afraid of him still? “Umm,” she said, noncommittally.
Everybody was on the move, all at once. They were picking their way out to the cars, guided by Warren’s flashlight. Miles stood in the parking space, waiting for Sinnott to move his old open Ford out of the way of his Cadillac. Helen and the baby were in the car, and Miles was watching the girl painter drive off first in her jeep, when, in the glare of Sinnott’s headlights, he became aware that Warren Coe was beside him, batting his eyes and wiggling his eyebrows and smiling an urgent question in the direction of Martha. For a minute, Miles could not divine what had got into him. Then he remembered the portrait. What Warren was saying in pantomime was that Miles should ask her, now, if it was all right for him to have it. Miles inwardly shrugged. Sober, he was not sure whether he wanted the painting, but he did not mind asking, just for the hell of it. He strolled up to the Sinnotts’ car and indicated to Martha that he wanted to speak to her. Martha rolled down her window. “I like that portrait of you,” he said in a casual tone. Martha’s eyebrows rose; she turned to her husband, who merely raced the engine. “Seriously?” she said in a lowered voice, looking back to where Warren was standing. “Seriously,” agreed Miles. “It’s far the best thing he’s done. In fact,” he continued, leaning his elbow on the little car’s window sash, “I’ve had the notion of buying it.” Martha stared. “You’re crazy,” she said. “Where would you put it?” She bit her lip. “Excuse me,” she corrected herself. “It’s none of my business.” “Warren tells me,” said Miles, “that he’d have to have your permission to sell it.”
Martha looked at her
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