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The queue was slowly drawn into the theater and he finally reached a place in front of the lithographs. He almost jumped out of his skin when he saw a colossal head of Anita Adair smiling at him from a sunbonnet streaming with curls. The letterpress informed Gilfoyle that it was indeed his own Anita. The people in the line were talking of her as the new star.
He told Kedzie that he was expected at the office. There were several advertisements to write for the next day's papers, and he had given the firm no warning of what he had not foreseen the day before. If they hunted for a preacher, Gilfoyle would get into trouble with Mr. Kiam. If they had listened to the excellent motto, "Business before pleasure," they might never have been married.
But he remembered that he had abandoned those privileges. And the fellow looked unrefinedly powerful. Gilfoyle gnawed the lip of silence, realizing also that his announcement would make a strange impression on Miss Clampett. She was one of those authors one reads about who think it necessary to hunt experiences and live romances in order to find literary material.
This alone would not necessarily have proved that she did not love him devotedly, but in this case it corroborated a context of hatred. Gilfoyle felt rebuffed. There was a distinct lack of hospitality in her welcome. This reception was the very opposite of his imagined rencounter. He did what a man usually does, revealing a masculine inability to argue with a woman.
For all she knew, the purchase of the license compelled the completion of the project. A group of Italians came from Room 365 two girls in white, a bareheaded mother who had been weeping, a fat and relieved-looking father, an insignificant youth who was unquestionably the new-born husband. Gilfoyle kept looking at his watch, but he had to wait his turn.
Kedzie did not know what he was talking about, any more than she knew what Caruso was singing about when she turned him on in Mrs. Jambers's phonograph, but his melodies put her heart to its paces, and so did Gilfoyle's. Gilfoyle wrote her poems, too, real poems not meant for publication at advertising rates. Kedzie had never had anybody commit poetry at her before.
Before their marriage Gilfoyle had permitted her to dance the Greek dances without paying her the compliment of a beating. After their marriage he had gone to Chicago to earn a living and left her alone in New York City where there were millions of rivals. Her second husband had been very philosophical about her career and had taken the news of her previous marriage with disgusting stoicism.
She was a buyer, one of Miss Ferber's Emma McChesneys on a lark. Gilfoyle did not tell Kedzie any of this. He told what followed as he toiled at the fearfully complicated problem of his shoe-laces, a problem rendered almost insuperable by the fact that he could not hold his foot high very long and dared not hold his head low at all. "Wonnerful thing happent t'night, Anita.
Connery began to squirm on the floor and get to his wabbly knees, and Gilfoyle writhed back to consciousness with wits a-flutter. There was a silence of mutual attention for a while. Connery was growling from all-fours like a surly dog: "I'll get you for this you'll see! You'll be sorry for this." This restored Dyckman's temper to its throne.
She did not even know the names of the successful, therefore mercenary, writers and illustrators, much less the names of the unsuccessful, therefore artistic and sincere. To Kedzie's delight, Gilfoyle took himself off at the end of a perfect day of misery. He left her alone with her ambitions. She was in very grand company.
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