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Updated: May 20, 2025
These gains were due to the work of the loyal Hugh as advertising agent, or to some desperate discount sale to a club on the part of Westervelt, who haunted the front of the house, a pale and flabby wraith of himself, racking his brain, swearing strange, German oaths, and perpetually conjuring up new advertising devices. His suffering approached the tragic.
If the last act keeps up we've got a prize-winner. Who's Edwin Baxter, anyhow?" Helen quietly stirred her tea. "I never heard the name before. A new man in the theatrical world, apparently." "Well, he's all right. I'm going over the whole thing again. Have you read it?" "No, I thought best to let you and Westervelt decide this time. I merely glanced at it."
Our ideals are not concerned in this Alessandra, you remember." His face clouded. "That is true. I wish it were otherwise. But can you get Olquest?" "Yes; his new play has failed. 'Too good, Westervelt said." "Oh, what blasphemy! To think Harry Olquest's plays are rejected, and on such grounds! You are right as always. I will go." "Thank you!"
Hugh and Westervelt counselled against any form of advertising that would seem to set the play in a class by itself, but Helen, made keen by her suffering, bluntly replied: "You are both wrong, utterly wrong. Our only possible chance of success lies in reaching that vast, sane, thoughtful public which seldom or never goes to the theatre.
Individually, he abhors Hollingsworth, and would like to annihilate Westervelt, yet he allows the superb Zenobia to be their victim; and if his readers object that the effect of the whole representation is painful, he would doubtless agree with them, but profess his incapacity honestly to alter a sentence.
She saw much less of him than she wished, for Hugh remained coldly unresponsive in his presence, and threw over their meetings a restraint which prevented the joyous companionship of their first acquaintanceship. More than this, Helen was conscious of being watched and commented upon, not merely by Hugh and Westervelt, but by guests of the hotel and representatives of the society press.
Perhaps the choice would have lain between Sanders, Cutler, and old Westervelt good and genial men. Asked to name the least popular officer, and, though men, and women, too, would have shrunk from saying it, the name that would have occurred to almost all was that of Blakely. And why?
Was Westervelt a goblin? Were those words of passion and agony, which Zenobia had uttered in my hearing, a mere stage declamation? Were they formed of a material lighter than common air? Or, supposing them to bear sterling weight, was it a perilous and dreadful wrong which she was meditating towards herself and Hollingsworth?
"I'm mighty glad to know that you wrote Alessandra, Douglass. It is worthy of Sardou, and it will win back every dollar we've lost in the other plays." "That's what I wrote it for," said Douglass, sombrely. Westervelt had no further scruples no reservations. "Well, now, as to terms and date of production. Let's get to business." Helen interposed. "No more of that for to-day. Mr.
Secondly, even while they passed beneath the tree, Zenobia's utterance was so hasty and broken, and Westervelt's so cool and low, that I hardly could make out an intelligible sentence on either side. What I seem to remember, I yet suspect, may have been patched together by my fancy, in brooding over the matter afterwards. "Why not fling the girl off," said Westervelt, "and let her go?"
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