Theophilus North by Thornton Wilder Page B

“figger.”
    You can imagine my surprise when on leaving she approached me with extended hand and said: “You are Mr. North, I believe. I’ve long wanted to introduce myself. I am Mrs. Edward Darley.—Might I sit down for a moment?”
    She took her time, seating herself, her eyes resting on mine in happy recognition of something. I remembered hearing that the first thing a young actress is taught in dramatic school is to sit down without lowering her eyes.
    â€œPerhaps you might know me better under my nom de plume . I am Flora Deland.”
    I had lived a sheltered academic life. I was one of the meager thirty million Americans who had never heard of Flora Deland. Most of the others in this thirty million had never been taught to read anything. I made appreciative noises, however.
    â€œAre you enjoying life in Newport, Mr. North?”
    â€œYes—very much indeed.”
    â€œYou certainly do get about! You are everywhere—reading aloud to Dr. Bosworth all those fascinating things about Bishop Berkeley; and reading the Fables of La Fontaine with the Skeel gairl. What a learned man you must be at your age! And so very clever, too—I mean resourceful. The way you managed the foolish elopement of Diana Bell—think of that! Diana is a sort of cousin of mine through the Haverlys. Such a headstrong gairl. It must have been perfectly marvelous the way you persuaded her not to make a fool of herself. Do tell me how you did it.”
    Now I have never been a handsome man. All I’ve got is what was bequeathed to me by my ancestors, together with that Scottish jaw and those Wisconsin teeth. Elegant women have never crossed a room to strike up an acquaintance with me. I wondered what was behind these amiabilities—then, suddenly, it struck me: Flora Deland was a smearer, a newspaper chatterbox. With her I was in the Eighth City—the parasitic camp-followers.
    I said, “Mrs. Darley—how do you like to be called, ma’am?”
    â€œOh, call me Miss Deland,” adding lightly, “You may call me Flora—I’m a working woman.”
    â€œFlora, I have not a word to say about Miss Bell. I have given my promise.”
    â€œOh, Mr. North, I didn’t mean for publication! I’m simply interested in cleverness and resourcefulness. I like people who use their wits. I’m a frustrated novelist, I suppose. Do let’s say that we’re friends. May we?” I nodded. “I lead a whole other life that has nothing to do with the newspapers. I have a cottage at Narragansett Pier where I love to entertain at the weekend. I have a guest cottage and can put you up. We all need a change from time to time, don’t we?” She rose and again extended her hand. “Can I call you up at the Y.M.C.A.?”
    â€œYes . . . yes.”
    â€œAnd what may I call you—Theophilus?”
    â€œTeddie. I prefer being called Teddie.”
    â€œYou must tell me about Dr. Bosworth and Bishop Berkeley, Teddie. What a household that is at the ‘Nine Gables’! Goodbye again, Teddie, and do accept an invitation to come to my dear little ‘Sandpiper’ for swimming and tennis and cards.”
    A working girl with a hundred and twenty million readers and a figure like Nita Naldi’s and a speaking voice of smoked velvet like Ethel Barrymore’s. . . . Oh, my Journal!
    This was not a matter to submit to Mrs. Cranston. This was for a man among men. “Henry,” I said, as we were chalking our cues at Herman’s, “who are some of the smearers that hang around town?”
    â€œFunny, you asked me that,” he said and went on with the game. When we’d finished the set he beckoned me to the remotest table and ordered our usual.
    â€œFunny, you asked me that. I saw Flora Deland on the street yesterday.”
    â€œWho’s she?”
    In all barbershops and billiard parlors there are tables and shelves