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"I'm a real ash-trash now. No don't bother to see me down. Mr. Deprayne will put me into the taxi'." Outside the threshold she paused to thrust her head back into the room, and to laugh gaily as she shouted in the slang of the street: "Oh, you Galahad!" But her eyes were swimming with tears. As I climbed the creaking stairs again, I was pondering the question of contentment. Here were three of us.
Sir Galahad on Broadway doesn't that strike you as a funny combination?" "Rather paradoxical," he admitted, "the environment might fit Don Juan better. But why Sir Galahad on Broadway?" "That's what they all call you. You are notoriously unattainable. The only man in this game who hasn't had an affair with any ash-trash." "With any what?" he questioned, puzzled.
"Ash-trash; actress," she enlightened. "The title is a little conceit of my own poor but original. You know perfectly well that Stella Marcine simply threw herself at your head during the rehearsals. And she told me that you never even asked her out to supper." "Why should I?" She smiled. "Everybody else does. Most men marry her, at one time or another." "Oh."
"Forgive me, Grace of course I didn't mean that. You're the cleverest woman on Broadway." She laughed. "I'm said to be quite an emotional ash-trash," she responded. It seemed inconceivable that Maxwell should miss the note of bitter misery in her voice; yet, blinded by his own quarrel with Fate, he passed into the next room oblivious of all else.
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