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Kedzie poked at him Ferriday's letter of introduction addressed to Lady Powell-Carewe. Mr. Charles took it and, not knowing what it contained, bore it into the other room without asking Kedzie to sit down. He reappeared at the door and bowed to her with great amazement.
With that Ferriday released the waiter, who hurried away, hoping that Ferriday's affectations included extravagant tips. Kedzie gobbled prettily the food before her. Ferriday could tell that she was anxiously watching and copying his methods of attack. He soon knew that this was her first real meal de luxe, but he did not mind that.
She would have been excited enough if she had known that the pictures in which she played a small part were being run off in the projection-room at the studio for Mr. Ferriday's benefit. Everybody was afraid of him. The heads of the firm were hoping that he would approve the reels and not order them thrown out. They were convinced that they would have to break with him before he broke them. Mr.
There were times when Ferriday raised her hopes and her pride so high that she fairly squealed with love of him and hugged him. That would have been the destruction of Kedzie if there had not been the counter-weight of conceit in Ferriday's soul, for at those times he would sigh to himself or aloud: "You are loving me only because I am useful to you." This thought always sobered and chilled Mr.
Ferriday's limousine to see her enter it. He would come for her again at night, but the building did not look so bad at night. So she tapped on the glass and told him to let her out, please, at the drug-store, as she had some marketing to do. "Sure, Miss," said the chauffeur. Kedzie liked that "Miss." It was ever so much prettier than "Mizzuz."
The timid thing that had watched the moving-picture director to see how he held his wineglass, and accepted his smile as a beam of sunshine breaking through the clouds about his godlike head, now found his gracefulness "actory," his intimacy impudent, and his association compromising. Ferriday's very picturesqueness and artistry convinced her now that he was not quite the gentleman.
"I see," said Ferriday. "Miss Anita Adair ring Mrs. Gilfoyle's bell. All right, my angel, at seven. Run along." He kissed her, and she was ice-cold. But then women were often like that before Ferriday's genius. The things we are ashamed of are an acid test of our souls. Kedzie Thropp was constantly improving the quality of her disgusts.
It threatened to bankrupt them before it was finished, but he derided them as imbeciles, moneychangers, misers. Garfinkel was manifestly afraid of Ferriday's very echo, and he cowered a little when Ferriday burst through the door with mane bristling and fangs bared. "Well, well, well!" Ferriday stormed. "What do you want, Garfinkel? What do you want, Garfinkel? What do you want?"
There was a quality in her work that surpassed Ferriday's expectations and made her pantomime singularly legible. The modulations of her thought from one extreme mood to another were always traceable. This was true of the least feelings. Ferriday would say: "Now you decide to telephone your lover. You hesitate, you telephone, a girl answers, you wait, he speaks, you smile."
Won't you try to find her a place?" "I'll guarantee her one," said Miss Havender, who was sure that the firm would be glad to put Mrs. Cheever under obligations. The firm was in need of patronage, as Mr. Ferriday's lavish expenditures had crippled its treasury, while his artistic whims had held up the delivery of nearly finished films.
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