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Kedzie was too excited to note the ghoulish joy with which he planned to put her into the most perilous plights that had ever threatened even a movie star with death or crippledom. "Do they scare you, my dear?" he asked. "Scare me?" said Kedzie. "Why, Mr. Ferriday, if you told me to, I'd go out to the Bronx Zoo-ological Gardens and bite the ear off the biggest lion they got in the lion-house."
Columbus was not angry at America because it had never seen an explorer before. It delighted Ferriday to think that he had discovered Kedzie. He would say later that he invented her. And she wanted tremendously to be discovered or invented or anything else, by anybody who could find a gold-mine in her somewhere and pay her a royalty on her own mineral wealth.
Ferriday had told her to go to Lady Powell-Carewe and get herself a bevy of specially designed gowns at the expense of the firm. There was hardly a woman alive who would not have rejoiced at such a mission. To Kedzie, who had never had a gown made by anything higher than a sewing-woman, the privilege was heavenly. Also, she had never met a Lady with a capital L.
She smiled a little at the inspiration that had saved her from confessing that she was Mrs. Gilfoyle. It was neat of her to tell Mr. Ferriday that she could be addressed "in care of Mrs. Gilfoyle." In care of herself! That was just what she was. Who else was so interested in Kedzie's advancement as Kedzie? She was a bitterly disappointed Kedzie just now.
"Nobody!" she laughed, pointing to the newspapers spangled with her portraits. Ferriday snorted, "Paid for by Jim Dyckman's money." "What do you mean Jim Dyckman's money?"
The hall-boy timidly announced: "Mistoo Dyckman is down year askin' kin he see you. Kin he?" "Send him up, please," said Kedzie. Then she turned to Ferriday. "He's here at this hour! I wonder why." "I'd better slope." "Do you mind?" "Not in the least. I'll go up a flight of stairs and take the elevator after His Majesty has finished with it. Good-by. Get busy!"
Ferriday was not thinking of the price or cut of her frock. He was perceiving the flexile figure that informed it, the virginal shoulders that curved up out of it, the slender, limber throat that aspired from them and the flower-poise of her head on its white stalk. "You are perfect" he groaned into her ear, with a flattering agony of appreciation.
Ferriday sighed, too, for that meant to his knowing soul that she was not long for this movie world. But he did not tell her so. He told her: "You're as wise as you are beautiful. You'll be as famous as you'll be rich. And this Dyckman lad can hurry things up." "How?" asked Kedzie, already foreseeing his game. "The backers of the Hyperfilm Company are getting writer's cramp in the spending hand.
Ferriday began to think seriously that the only way he could break Kedzie's pride completely would be to make her his wife. He began to wonder if that were not, after all, what she was driving at or trying to drive him to.
Ferriday. He worked none the less for her and himself and he tried in a hundred ways to surprise the little witch into an adoration complete enough to make her forget herself, make her capable of that ultimate altruism to which a woman falls or rises when she stretches herself out on the altar of love.
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