It shook off the new affair as a volcano burns away the weeds that
have grown about its crater. He supposed that Charity wanted to
take up the moving-picture scheme in earnest, and he repented the
fact that he had gone to the studio for information and had come
away with a flirtation.
One thing was certain: he must not fail to answer Charity's summons.
He had an engagement with Kedzie, but he called her up and told her
the politest lie he could concoct. Then he made himself ready and
put on his festival attire.
* * * * *
Charity had grown sick of having people say, "How pale you are!"
"You've lost flesh, haven't you?" "Have you been ill, dear?"--those
tactless observations that so many people feel it necessary to make,
as if there were no mirrors or scales or symptoms for one's
information and distress.
Annoyed by these conversational harrowers, Charity had finally gone
to her dressmaker, Dutilh, and asked him to save her from vegetation!
He saw that she was a young woman in sore need of a compliment, and
he flattered her lavishly. He did more for her improvement in five
minutes than six doctors, seventeen clergymen, and thirty financiers
could have done. A compliment in time is a heart-stimulant with no
acetanilid reaction. Also he told her how wonderful she had been in
the past, recalling by its name and by the name of its French author
many a gown she had worn, as one would tell a great actress what
roles he had seen her in.
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