 CHAPTER IX Ginger becomes a right-hand man. It was not till she saw him actually standing there before her with his hair rumbled and a large smut on the tip of his nose. That Sally really understood how profoundly troubled she had been about this young man, and how vivid had been that vision of him bobbing about on the waters of the Thames, a cold and unappreciated corpse. She was a girl of keen imagination, and she had allowed her imagination to riot unchecked. Astonishment, therefore, at the extraordinary fact of his being there was, for the moment, thrust aside by relief. Never before in her life had she experienced such an overwhelming rush of exhilaration. She flung herself into a chair and burst into a screech of laughter which even to her own ears sounded strange. It struck Ginger as hysterical. I say, you know, said Ginger, as the merriment showed no signs of abating. Ginger was concerned, nasty shock for a girl, finding blighters under her bed. Sally sat up, gurgling, and wiped her eyes. Oh, I am glad to see you, she gasped. No, really, said Ginger, gratified. That's fine. It occurred to him that some sort of apology would be a graceful act. I say, you know, awfully sorry, about barging in here, I mean, never dreamed it was your room, unoccupied, I thought. Don't mention it. I ought not to have disturbed you. You were having a nice sleep, of course. Do you always sleep on the floor? It was like this. Of course, if you're wearing it for ornament, as a sort of beauty-spot, said Sally, all right, but in case you don't know, you have a smut on your nose. Oh, my aunt, not really. Now would I deceive you on an important point like that? Do you mind if I have a look in the glass? Certainly, if you can stand it. Ginger moved hurriedly to the dressing table. You are perfectly right, he announced, applying his handkerchief. I thought I was. I'm very quick at noticing things. My hair's a bit rumpled, too. Very much so. You take my advice, said Ginger earnestly, and never lie about under beds. There's nothing in it. That reminds me, you won't be offended if I ask you something. No, no, go ahead. It's rather an impertinent question. You may resent it. No, no. Well, then, what were you doing under my bed? Oh, under your bed? Yes, under my bed, this. It's a bed, you know, mine, my bed, you were under it, why, or putting it another way, why were you under my bed? I was hiding. Playing hide and seek, that explains it. This is what's her name. Beecher, Meecher was after me. Sally shook her head disapprovingly. We mustn't encourage Mrs. Meecher in these childish pastimes. It unsettles her. Ginger passed an agitated hand over his forehead. It's like this. I hate to keep criticizing your appearance, said Sally, and personally I like it, but when you clutched your brow just then, you put about a pound of dust on it. Your hands are probably grubby. Ginger inspected them. They are. Why not make a really good job of it and have a wash? Do you mind? I'd prefer it. Thanks awfully. I mean to say it's your basin, you know, and all that. What I mean is, seem to be making myself pretty well at home. Oh, no. Touching the matter of soap. Use mine. We Americans are famous for our hospitality. Thanks awfully. The towel is on your right. Thanks awfully. And I have a clothes brush in my bag. Thanks awfully. Splashing followed, like a sea lion taking a dip. Now then, said Sally, why were you hiding from Mrs. Meacher? A care-worn, almost hunted look came into Ginger's face. I say, you know, that woman is rather by way of being one of the lads. What scares me? Word was brought that she was on the prowl, so it seemed to me a judicious move to take cover till she sort of blew over. If she'd found me, she'd have made me take that dog of hers for a walk. Toto? You know, said Ginger, with a strong sense of injury. No dogs got a right to be a dog like that. I don't suppose there's anyone keener on dogs than I am, but a thing like a woolly rat. He shuddered slightly. Well, one hates to be seen about with it in the public streets. Why couldn't you have refused in a firm but gentlemanly manner to take Toto out? Ah, there you rather touch the spot. You see, the matter of fact is, I'm a bit behind with the rent, and that makes it rather hard to take what you might call a firm stand. But how can you be behind with the rent? I only left here the Saturday before last, and you weren't in the place then. You can't have been here more than a week. I've been here just a week. That's the week I'm behind with. But why? You were a millionaire when I left you at Rovie. Well, the fact of the matter is, I went back to the tables that night and lost a goodish bit of what I'd won, and somehow or other, when I got to America, the stuff seemed to slip away. What made you come to America at all? said Sally, asking the question which she felt any sensible person would have asked at the opening of the conversation. One of his familiar blushes raced over Ginger's face. Oh, I thought I would. Land of opportunity, you know. Have you managed to find any of the opportunities yet? Well, I have got a job of sorts. I'm a waiter at a rummy little place on Second Avenue. The salary isn't big, but I'd have wangled enough out of it to pay last week's rent, only they docked me a goodish bit for breaking plates and what not. The fact is, I'm making rather a hash of it. Oh, Ginger, you oughtn't to be a waiter. And that's what the boss seems to think. I mean, you ought to be doing something ever so much better. But what? You've no notion how well all these blighters here seem to be able to get along without my help. I've tramped all over the place, offering my services, but they all say they'll try to carry on as they are. Sally reflected. I know. What? I'll make Fillmore give you a job. I wonder I didn't think of it before. Fillmore? My brother. Yes, he'll be able to use you. What as? Sally considered. As a—as a—oh, as his right-hand man. Does he want a right-hand man? Sure to. A young fellow trying to get along? Sure to want a right-hand man. Hmm, yes, said Ginger, reflectively. Of course, I've never been a right-hand man, you know. Oh, you'd pick it up. I'll take you round to him now. He's staying at the Aster. There's just one thing, said Ginger. What's that? I might make a hash of it. Heaven's Ginger, there must be something in this world that you wouldn't make a hash of. Don't stand arguing any longer. Are you dry and clean? Very well then, let's be off. Right-ho. Ginger took a step towards the door, then paused, rigid, with one leg in the air, as though some spell had been cast upon him. From the passage outside there had sounded a shrill yapping. Ginger looked at Sally, then he looked longingly at the bed. Don't be such a coward, said Sally, severely. Yes, but how much do you owe Mrs. Meacher? Round about twelve dollars, I think it is. I'll pay her. Ginger flushed awkwardly. No, I'm hanged, if you will. I mean, he stammered, it's frightfully good of you and all that, and I can't tell you how grateful I am, but honestly, I couldn't. Sally did not press the point. She liked him the better for a rugged independence, which in the days of his impecuniousness her brother Fillmore had never dreamed of exhibiting. Very well, she said, have it your own way. Proud, that's me all over, Mabel. Ginger. She broke off sharply. Pull yourself together. Where is your manly spirit? I'd be ashamed to be such a coward. Be sorry, but honestly, that woolly dog. Never mind the dog I'll see you through. They came out into the passage almost on top of Toto, who was stalking phantom rats. Mrs. Meacher was maneuvering in the background, her face lit up grimly at the sight of Ginger. Mr. Camp, I've been looking for you. Sally intervened brightly. Oh, Mrs. Meacher, she said, shepherding her young charge through the danger zone. I was so surprised to meet Mr. Camp here. He is a great friend of mine. We met in France. We're going off now to have a long talk about old times, and then I'm taking him to see my brother. Toto. Dear little thing, you ought to take him for a walk, said Sally. It's a lovely day. Mr. Camp was saying just now that he would have liked to take him, but we're rather in a hurry, and shall probably have to get into a taxi. You've no idea how busy my brother is just now, if we're late he'll never forgive us. She passed on down the stairs, leaving Mrs. Meacher dissatisfied, but irresolute. There was something about Sally which, even in her pre-wealthy days, had always baffled Mrs. Meacher and cramped her style, and now that she was rich and independent, she inspired in the chattelain of the boarding-house an emotion which was almost awe. The front door had closed before Mrs. Meacher had collected her faculties, and Ginger, pausing on the sidewalk, drew a long breath. You know you're wonderful, he said, regarding Sally with unconcealed admiration. She accepted the compliment compositely. Now we'll go and hunt up Fillmore, she said, but there's no need to hurry, of course, really. We'll go for a walk first, and then call at the Aster and make him give us lunch. I want to hear all about you. I've heard something already. I met your cousin, Mr. Carmile. He was on the train coming from Detroit. Did you know that he was in America? No, I've, er, rather lost touch with the family. So I gathered from Mr. Carmile, and I feel hideously responsible. It was all through me that all this happened. Oh, no. Of course it was. I made you what you are today. I hope I'm satisfied. I dragged and dragged you down until the soul within you died, so to speak. I know perfectly well that you wouldn't have dreamed of savaging the family as you seem to have done if it hadn't been for what I said to you at Roville. Ginger, tell me, what did happen? I'm dying to know. Mr. Carmile said you insulted your uncle. Donald, yes, we did have a bit of a scrap, as a matter of fact. He made me go out to dinner with him, and we are, sort of, agreed. To start with, he wanted me to apologize to old Scrimger, and I rather gave it a miss. Noble fellow. Scrimger? No, silly you. Oh, ah, Ginger blushed. And then there was all that about the soup, you know. How do you mean all that about the soup? What about the soup? What soup? Well, things sort of hoted up a bit when the soup arrived. I don't understand. I mean, the trouble seemed to start, as it were, when the waiter had finished ladling out the Malagatani, thick soup, you know. I know Malagatani is a thick soup, yes. Well, my old uncle, I'm not blaming him, don't you know, more of his misfortune than his fault, I can see that now, but he's got a heavy mustache, like a walrus, rather, and he's a bit apt to inhale the stuff through it. And I—well, I ask him not to. It was just a suggestion, you know. He cut up fairly rough, and by the time the fish came round, we were more or less down on the mat, chewing the holes in one another—my fault, probably. I wasn't feeling particularly well disposed towards the family that night. I just had a talk with Bruce, my cousin, you know, in Piccadilly, and that had rather got the wind up me. Bruce always seems to get on my nerves a bit, somehow, and Uncle Donald asking me to dinner and all that. By the way, did you get the books? What books? Bruce said he wanted to lend you some books. That's why I gave him your address. Sally stared. He never sent me any books. Well, he said he was going to, and I had to tell him where to send them. Sally walked on, a little thoughtfully. She was not a vain girl, but it was impossible not to perceive in the light of this fresh evidence that Mr. Carmile had made a journey of three thousand miles, with the sole object of renewing his acquaintance with her. It did not matter, of course, but it was vaguely disturbing. No girl cares to be dogged by a man she rather dislikes. Go on telling me about your uncle, she said. While there is not much more to tell, I had happened to get that wireless of yours just before I started out to dinner with him, and I was more or less feeling that I wasn't going to stand any rot from the family. I'd got to the fish-course, hadn't I? Well, we managed to get through that, somehow, but we didn't survive the filet steak. One thing seemed to lead to another, and the show sort of bust up. He called me a good many things, and I got a bit fed up, and finally I told him I hadn't any more use for the family, and was going to start out on my own, and, well, I did, don't you know? And here I am. Sally listened to this saga breathlessly. More than ever did she feel responsible for her young protégé, and any faint qualms which she had entertained as to the wisdom of transferring practically the whole of her patrimony to the care of so erratic a financier as her brother vanished. It was her plain duty to see that Ginger was started well in the race of life, and Fillmore was going to come in uncommonly handy. We'll go to the Aster now, she said, and I'll introduce you to Fillmore. He's a theatrical manager, and he's sure to have something for you. It's awfully good of you to bother about me. Ginger, said Sally, I regard you as a grandson. Hail that cab, will you? End of Chapter 9. Recorded on September 1, 2008, in San Diego, California. Chapter 10 of The Adventures of Sally. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Sally by P. G. Woodhouse. Chapter 10. Sally in the Shadows. One. It seemed to Sally in the weeks that followed her reunion with Ginger Kemp that a sort of golden age had set in. On all the frontiers of her little kingdom there was peace and prosperity, and she woke each morning in a world so neatly smoothed and ironed out that the most capulous pessimist could hardly have found anything in it to criticize. True, Gerald was still a thousand miles away, going to Chicago to superintend the opening of The Primrose Way, for Fillmore had acceded to his friend Ike's suggestion in the manner of producing it first in Chicago. And he had been called in by a distracted manager to revise the work of a brother dramatist, whose comedy was in difficulties at one of the theaters in that city, and this meant that he would have to remain on the spot for some time to come. It was disappointing, for Sally had been looking forward to having him back in New York for a few days, but she refused to allow herself to be depressed. Life as a whole was much too satisfactory for that. Life indeed, in every other respect, seemed perfect. Fillmore was going strong. Ginger was off her conscience. She had found an apartment. Her new hat suited her, and The Primrose Way was a tremendous success. Chicago, it appeared, from Fillmore's account, was paying little attention to anything except The Primrose Way. National problems had ceased to interest the citizens. Local problems left them cold. Their minds were riveted to the exclusion of all else on the problem of how to secure seats. The production of the piece, according to Fillmore, had been the most terrific experience that had come to stir Chicago since the Great Fire. Of all these satisfactory happenings, the most satisfactory, to Sally's thinking, was the fact that the problem of Ginger's future had been solved. Ginger had entered the service of the Fillmore-Nicholas theatrical enterprises limited, managing director, Fillmore-Nicholas. Fillmore would have made the title longer, only that was all that would go on the brass plate, and was to be found daily in the outer office, his duties consisting mainly, it seemed, in reading the evening papers. What exactly he was even Ginger hardly knew. Sometimes he felt like the man at the wheel, sometimes like a glorified office boy, and not so very glorified at that. For the most part he had to prevent the mob rushing and getting at Fillmore, who sat in semi-regal state in the inner office, pondering great schemes. But though there might be an occasional passing uncertainty in Ginger's mind as to just what he was supposed to be doing, in exchange for the fifty dollars he drew every Friday, there was nothing uncertain about his gratitude to Sally for having pulled the strings and enabled him to do it. He tried to thank her every time they met, and nowadays they were meeting frequently, for Ginger was helping her to furnish her new apartment. In this task he spared no efforts. He said that it kept him in condition. "'And what I mean to say is,' said Ginger, pausing in the act of carrying a massive easy chair to the third spot which Sally had selected in the last ten minutes. "'If I didn't sweat about a bit and help you after the way you got me that job.' "'Ginger, desist,' said Sally. "'Yes, but honestly. If you don't stop it, I'll make you move that chair into the next room.' "'Shall I?' Ginger rubbed his blistered hands and took a new grip. "'Anything you say.' "'Silly, of course not. The only other rooms are my bedroom, the bathroom, and the kitchen. What on earth would I want a great lumbering chair in them for? All the same, I believe the first we chose was the best. "'Back she goes, then, what?' Sally reflected frowningly. This business of setting up house was causing her much thought. "'No,' she decided, by the window is better.' She looked at him remorsefully. "'I'm giving you a lot of trouble.' "'Trouble?' Ginger, accompanied by a chair, staggered across the room. "'The way I look at it is this.' He wiped a bead of perspiration from his freckled forehead. "'You got me that job, and—' "'Stop.' "'Right, Ho. "'Still, you did, you know.' Sally sat down in the arm-chair and stretched herself. Watching Ginger work had given her a vicarious fatigue. She surveyed the room proudly. It was certainly beginning to look cozy. The pictures were up, the carpet down, the furniture very neatly in order. For almost the first time in her life she had the restful sensation of being at home. She had always longed, during the past three years of boarding-house existence, for a settled abode, a place where she could lock the door on herself and be alone. The apartment was small, but it was undeniably a haven. She looked about her and could see no flaw in it, except she had a sudden sense of something missing. "'Hello?' She said. "'Where's that photograph of me? I'm sure I put it on the mantelpiece yesterday.' His exertions seemed to have brought the blood to Ginger's face. He was a rich red. He inspected the mantelpiece narrowly. "'No, no photograph here.' "'I know there isn't, but it was there yesterday, or was it? I know I meant to put it there. Perhaps I forgot. It's the most beautiful thing you ever saw. Not a bit like me, but what of that? They touch him up in the dark room, you know. I value it, because it looks the way I should like to look if I could.' "'I've never had a beautiful photograph taken of myself,' said Ginger, solemnly, with gentle regret. "'Chair up.' "'Oh! I don't mind. I only mentioned.' "'Ginger,' said Sally, "'pardon my interrupting your remarks, which I know are valuable. But this chair is not right. It ought to be where it was at the beginning. Could you give your imitation of a pack mule just once more? And after that I'll make you some tea, if there's any tea, or milk, or cups. There are cups, all right. I know, because I smashed, too, the day before yesterday. I'll nip round the corner for some milk, shall I?' "'Yes, please, nip. All this hard work has taken it out of me terribly.' Over the tea-table Sally became inquisitive. "'What I can't understand about this job of yours, Ginger, which, as you are just about to observe, I was noble enough to secure for you, is the amount of leisure that seems to go with it. How is it that you are able to spend your valuable time—Filmore's valuable time, rather—juggling with my furniture every day? Oh! I can usually get off. But oughtn't you to be at your post doing whatever it is you do? What do you do?' Ginger stirred his tea thoughtfully, and gave his mind to the question. "'While I sort of mess about, you know,' he pondered. "'I interview diverse blighters, and tell them your brother is out, and take their names and addresses, and—oh, all that sort of thing. Does Filmore consult you much? He lets me read some of the plays that are sent in—awful tosh most of them—sometimes he sends me off to a vaudeville house of an evening. As a treat?' "'To see some special act, you know, to report on it, in case he might want to use it for this review of his.' "'Which review?' "'Didn't you know he was going to put on a review—oh, rather, a whacking big affair, going to cut out the follies and all that sort of thing?' "'But, my goodness!' Sally was alarmed. It was just like Filmore, she felt, to go branching out into these expensive schemes when he ought to be moving warily and trying to consolidate the small success he had had. All his life he had thought in millions, where the prudent man would have been content with hundreds, an inexhaustible fount of optimism bubbled eternally within him. "'That's rather ambitious,' she said. "'Yes, ambitious sort of cove, your brother, quite the Napoleon.' "'I shall have to talk to him,' said Sally, decidedly. She was annoyed with Filmore. Everything had been going so beautifully, with everybody peaceful and happy and prosperous, and no anxiety anywhere, till he had spoiled things. Now she would have to start worrying again. "'Of course,' argued Ginger, there's money in reviews, over in London fellows make pots out of them.' Sally shook her head. "'It won't do,' she said, and I'll tell you another thing that won't do, this arm-chair. Of course it ought to be over by the window. You can see that yourself, can't you?' "'Absolutely,' said Ginger, patiently preparing for action, once more. Two. Sally's anxiety, with regard to her ebullient brother, was not lessened by the receipt shortly afterwards of a telegram from Miss Winch in Chicago. "'Have you been feeding Filmore meat?' the telegram ran, and, while Sally could not have claimed that she completely understood it, there was a sinister suggestion about the message which decided her to wait no longer before making investigations. She tore herself away from the joys of furnishing, and went round to the headquarters of the Filmore-Nicholas theatrical enterprises limited, managing director Filmore-Nicholas, without delay. Ginger, she discovered on arrival, was absent from his customary post, his place in the outer office being taken by a lad of tender years and pimply exterior, who thawed and cast off a proud reserve on hearing Sally's name, and told her to walk right in. Sally walked right in, and found Filmore with his feet on an untidy desk, studying what appeared to be costume designs. "'Ah, Sally,' he said, in the distraight, tired voice which speaks of vast preoccupations. Prosperity was still putting in its silent, deadly work on the hope of the American theatre. What, even at as late an epoch as the return from Detroit, had been merely a smooth fullness around the angle of the jaw, was now frankly and without disguise a double chin. He was wearing a new waistcoat, and it was unbuttoned. "'I am rather busy,' he went on, always glad to see you, but I am rather busy. I have a hundred things to attend to.' "'Well, attend to me. That'll only make a hundred and one. Phil, what's all this I hear about a review?' Filmore looked as like a small boy caught in the act of stealing jam, as it is possible for a great theatrical manager to look. He had been wondering, in his darker moments, what Sally would say about that project when she heard of it, and he had hoped she would not hear of it until all the preparations were so complete that interference would be impossible. He was extremely fond of Sally, but there was, he knew, a lamentable vein of caution in her makeup which might lead her to criticise. "'And how can your man of affairs carry on if women are buzzing round criticising all the time?' He picked up a pen and put it down, buttoned his waistcoat and unbuttoned it, and scratched his ear with one of the costume designs. "'Oh, yes, the review. It's no good saying, oh, yes, you know perfectly well, it's a crazy idea. "'Really, these business matters, this interference. "'I don't want to run your affairs for you, Phil, but that money of mine does make me a sort of partner, I suppose, and I think I have a right to raise a loud yell of agony when I see you risking it on a—' "'Pardon me,' said Phil more loftily, looking happier. "'Let me explain.' "'Women never understand business matters. Your money is tied up exclusively in the primrose way, which, as you know, is a tremendous success. You have nothing whatever to worry about as regards any new production I may make. "'I'm not worrying about the money, I'm worrying about you.' A tolerant smile played about the lower slopes of Philmore's face. "'Don't be alarmed about me, I'm all right.' "'You aren't all right, you've no business, when you've only just got started as a manager, to be rushing into an enormous production like this, you can't afford it. "'My dear child, as I said before, women cannot understand these things. A man in my position can always command money for a new venture. "'Do you mean to say you have found somebody silly enough to put up money?' "'Certainly. I don't know that there is any secret about it. Your friend, Mr. Carmile, has taken an interest in some of my forthcoming productions.' "'What?' Sally had been disturbed before, but she was aghast now. This was something she had never anticipated. Bruce Carmile seemed to be creeping into her life like an advancing tide. Never appeared to be no eluding him. Wherever she turned, there he was, and she could do nothing but rage impotently. The situation was becoming impossible. Philmore misinterpreted the note of dismay in her voice. "'It's quite all right,' he assured her. "'He's a very rich man, large, private means, besides his big income, even if anything goes wrong.' "'It isn't that. It's—' The hopelessness of explaining to Philmore stopped Sally, and while she was chafing at this new complication which had come to upset the orderly routine of her life, there was an outburst of voices in the other office. Ginger's understudy seemed to be endeavouring to convince somebody that the big chief was engaged, and not to be intruded upon. In this he was unsuccessful, for the door opened tempestuously, and Miss Winch sailed in. "'Philmore, you poor nut,' said Miss Winch, for though she might wrap up her meaning somewhat obscurely in her telegraphic communications, when it came to the spoken word she was directness itself. Stop picking straws in your hair and listen to me, you're dippy.' The last time Sally had seen Philmore's fiancée, she had been impressed by her imperturbable calm. Miss Winch in Detroit had seemed a girl whom nothing could ruffle, but she had lapsed now from this serene placidity struck Sally as ominous. Slightly though she knew her, she felt that it could be no ordinary happening that had so animated her sister-in-law to be. "'Ah, here you are,' said Philmore. He had started to his feet indignantly at the opening of the door, like a lion bearded in its den, but calm had returned when he saw who the intruder was. "'Yes, here I am!' Miss Winch dropped despairingly into a swivel chair, and endeavored to restore herself with a stick of chewing-gum. "'Philmore, darling, you are the sweetest thing on earth, and I love you, but on present form you could just walk straight into Bloomingdale and they'd give you the royal suite.' "'My dear girl!' "'What do you think?' demanded Miss Winch, turning to Sally. "'I've just been telling him,' said Sally, welcoming this ally. "'I think it's absurd at this stage of things for him to put on an enormous review.' "'Review?' Miss Winch stopped in the act of gnawing her gum. "'What review?' She flung up her arms. "'I shall have to swallow this gum,' she said. "'You can't chew with your head going round. Are you putting on a review, too?' Philmore was buttoning and unbuttoning his waistcoat. He had a hounded look. "'Certainly—certainly,' he replied, in a tone of some feverishness. "'I wish you girls would leave me to manage.' "'Dippy,' said Miss Winch, once more. "'Telegraphic address—T-Pod—Mateawan.'" She swivelled round to Sally again. "'Say, listen, this boy must be stopped. We must form a gang in his best interests and get him put away. What do you think he proposes doing? I'll give you three guesses. Oh, what's the use? You'd never hit it. This poor, wandering lad has got it all fixed up to star me—me—in a new show." Philmore removed a hand from his waistcoat buttons and waved it protestingly. "'I have used my own judgment.' "'Yes, sir,' proceeded Miss Winch, riding over the interruption. "'That's what he's planning to spring on an unsuspicious public. I'm sitting peacefully in my room at the hotel in Chicago, pronging a few cents worth of scrambled eggs and reading the morning paper when the telephone rings. Gentlemen below would like to see me. Oh, ask him to wait—business of flinging on a few clothes—down in elevator, bright sunrise effects in lobby. What on earth do you mean?' The gentleman had a head of red hair which had to be seemed to be believed, explained Miss Winch, lit up the lobby. Management had switched off all the electrics for sake of economy. An Englishman he was, nice fellow, named Kemp. "'Oh, is Ginger in Chicago?' said Sallie. I wondered why he wasn't on his little chair in the outer office. "'I sent Kemp to Chicago,' said Philmore, to have a look at the show. It is my policy, if I am unable to pay periodical visits myself, to send a representative.' "'Save it up for the long winter evenings,' advised Miss Winch, cutting in on this statement of managerial tactics. Mr. Kemp may have been there to look at the show, but his chief reason for coming was to tell me to beat it back to New York, to enter into my kingdom. Philmore wanted me on the spot, he told me, so that I could sit around in this office here, interviewing my supporting company—me, can you or can you not?' inquired Miss Winch, frankly. "'Tie it?' "'Well,' Sallie hesitated. "'Don't say it. I know it, just as well as you do. It's too sad for words.' "'You persist in underestimating your abilities, Gladys,' said Philmore reproachfully. "'I have had a certain amount of experience in theatrical matters. I have seen a good deal of acting, and I assure you that as a character actress you—' Miss Winch rose swiftly from her seat, kissed Philmore energetically, and sat down again. She produced another stick of chewing gum, then shook her head, and replaced it in her bag. "'You're a darling old thing to talk like that,' she said, and I hate to wake you out of your daydreams, but honestly, Philmore dear, do just step out of the padded cell for one moment and listen to reason. I know exactly what has been passing in your poor disordered bean. You took Elsa Dolan out of a minor part and made her a star overnight. She goes to Chicago, and the critics and everybody else rave about her. As a matter of fact,' she said to Sally with enthusiasm, for hers was an honest and generous nature. "'You can't realize not having seen her play there what an amazing hit she has made. She really is a sensation. Everybody says she's going to be the biggest thing on record. Very well then. What does Philmore do? The poor fish claps his hand to his forehead and cries, and zooks. An idea. I've done it before. I'll do it again. I'm the fellow who can make a star out of anything. And he picks on me.' "'My dear girl.' Now the flaw in the scheme is this. Elsa is a genius, and if he hadn't made her a star somebody else would have done. But little Gladys, that's something else again.' She turned to Sally. "'You've seen me in action, and let me tell you, you've seen me at my best. Give me a maid's part with a tray to carry on in Act I, and a couple of yes-madams in Act II, and I'm there. Ellen Terry hasn't anything on me when it comes to saying yes, madam, and I'm willing to back myself for gold, notes, or lima-beans against Sarah Bernhardt as a tray-carrier. But there I finish. That lets me out, and anybody who thinks otherwise is going to lose a lot of money. Between ourselves the only thing I can do really well is to cook.' "'My dear Gladys!' cried Fillmore, revolted. "'I'm a heaven-born cook, and I don't mind notifying the world to that effect. I can cook a chicken casserole so that you would leave home and mother for it. Also my English pork pies. One of these days I'll take an afternoon off and assemble one for you. You'd be surprised. But acting? No. I can't do it, and I don't want to do it. I only went on the stage for fun, and my idea of fun isn't to plow through a star-part with all the critics waving their axes in the front row, and me knowing all the time that it's taking money out of Fillmore's bankroll that ought to be going towards buying the little home with stationary wash-tubs. Well, that's that, Fillmore, old darling. I thought I'd just mention it.' Sally could not help being sorry for Fillmore. He was sitting with his chin on his hands, staring moodily before him, Napoleon at Elba. It was plain that this project of taking Miss Winch by the scruff of the neck and hurling her to the heights had been very near his heart. If that's how you feel, he said in a stricken voice, there is nothing more to say. Oh, yes there is. We will now talk about this review of yours. It's off. Fillmore bounded to his feet. He thumped the desk with a well-nourished fist. A man can stand just so much. It is not off. Great heavens, it's too much. I will not put up with this interference with my business concerns. I will not be tied and hampered. Here I am, a man of broad vision, and—and broad vision. I form my plans—my plans. I form them. I shape my schemes. And what happens? A horde of girls flock into my private office while I am endeavouring to concentrate—and concentrate. I won't stand it. Advice, yes. Interference, no. I—I—I—and kindly remember that. The door closed with a bang. A fainter detonation announced the whirlwind passage through the outer office. Footsteps died away down the corridor. Sally looked at Miss Winch, stunned. A roused and militant Fillmore was new to her. Miss Winch took out the stick of chewing-gum again and unwrapped it. Isn't he cute, she said. I hope he doesn't get the soft kind. She murmured, chewing reflectively. The soft kind? He'll be back soon with a box of candy, explained Miss Winch, and he will get that sloshy, creamy sort, though I keep telling him I like the other. Well one thing's certain. Fillmore's got it up his nose. He's beginning to hop about and sing in the sunlight. It's going to be hard work to get that boy down to earth again. Miss Winch heaved a gentle sigh. I should like him to have enough left in the old stocking to pay the first year's rent when the wedding bells ring out. She bit meditatively on her chewing-gum. Not, she said, that it matters. I'd be just as happy in two rooms and a kitchenette so long as Fillmore was there. You've no notion how dippy I am about him. Her freckled face glowed. He grows on me like a darned drug, and the funny thing is that I keep right on admiring him, though I can see all the while that he's the most perfect chump. He is a chump, you know. That's what I love about him. That and the way his ears wiggle when he gets excited. Chumps always make the best husbands. When you marry Sally, grab a chump. Tap his forehead first, and if it rings solid, don't hesitate. All the unhappy marriages come from the husband having brains. What good are brains to a man? They only unsettle him. She broke off and scrutinized Sally closely. Say, what do you do with your skin? She spoke with solemn earnestness, which made Sally laugh. What do I do with my skin? I just carry it around with me. Well, said Miss Winch enviously, I wish I could train my darn fool of a complexion to get that way. Freckles are the devil. When I was eight I had the finest collection in the Middle West, and I've been adding to it right along. Some folks say lemon juice will cure them. I'm going to lap up all I give them and ask for more. There's only one way of getting rid of freckles, and that is to saw the head off at the neck. But why do you want to get rid of them? Why? Because a sensitive girl, anxious to retain her future husband's love, doesn't enjoy going about looking like something out of a dime museum. How absurd! Fillmore worships freckles. Did he tell you so? Asked Miss Winch eagerly. Not in so many words, but you can see it in his eye. Well, he certainly asked me to marry him, knowing all about them, I will say that. And what's more, I don't think feminine loveliness means much to Fillmore, or he'd never have picked on me. Still, it is calculated to give a girl a jar you must admit when she picks up a magazine and reads an advertisement of a face cream beginning. Your husband is growing cold to you, can you blame him? Have you really tried to cure those unsightly blemishes? Still, I haven't noticed Fillmore growing cold to me, so maybe it's all right. It was a subdued Sally who received ginger when he called at her apartment a few days later on his return from Chicago. It seemed to her, thinking over the recent scene, that matters were even worse than she had feared. This absurd review, which she had looked on as a mere isolated outbreak of foolishness, was, it would appear, only a specimen of the sort of thing her misguided brother proposed to do, a sample selected at random from a wholesale lot of frantic schemes. Fillmore, there was no longer any room for doubt, was preparing to express his great soul on a vast scale, and she could not dissuade him. A humiliating thought, she had grown so accustomed through the years to being the dominating mind that this revolt from her authority made her feel helpless and inadequate. Her self-confidence was shaken. And Bruce Carmile was financing him. It was illogical, but Sally could not help feeling that when, she had not the optimism to say if, he lost his money, she would somehow be under an obligation to him as if the disaster had been her fault. She disliked, with a wholehearted intensity, the thought of being under an obligation to Mr. Carmile. Others said he had looked in to inspect the furniture on the chance that Sally might want it shifted again, but Sally had no criticisms to make on that subject. Weightier matters occupied her mind. She sat Ginger down in the arm-chair, and started to pour out her troubles. It soothed her to talk to him. In a world which had somehow become chaotic again after an all-to-brief period of peace, he was solid and consoling. I shouldn't worry, observed Ginger with winch-like calm, when she had finished drawing for him the picture of a Fillmore rampant against a background of expensive reviews. Sally nearly shook him. It's all very well to tell me not to worry, she cried. How can I help worrying? Fillmore simply a baby, and he's just playing the fool. He has lost his head completely, and I can't stop him. That is the awful part of it. I used to be able to look him in the eye, and he would wag his tail and crawl back into his basket, but now I seem to have no influence at all over him. He just snorts and goes on running round in circles, breathing fire. Ginger did not abandon his attempts to indicate the silver lining. I think you are making too much of all this, you know. I mean to say it's quite likely he's found some mug. What I mean is, it's just possible that your brother isn't standing the entire racket himself. Of some rich Johnny has breezed along with a pot of money. It often happens like that, you know. You read in the paper that some manager or other is putting on some show or other, when really the chap who's actually supplying the pieces of eight is some anonymous lad in the background. That is just what has happened, and it makes it worse than ever. Fillmore tells me that your cousin, Mr. Carmile, is providing the money. This did interest Ginger. He sat up with a jerk. Oh, I say, he exclaimed. Yes, said Sally, still agitated, but pleased that she had at last shaken him out of his trying attitude of detachment. Ginger was scowling. That's a bit off, he observed. I think so too. I don't like that. Nor do I. Do you know what I think, said Ginger, ever a man of plain speech and a reckless plunger into delicate subjects? The blighter's in love with you. Sally flushed. After examining the evidence before her, she had reached the same conclusion in the privacy of her thoughts, but it embarrassed her to hear the thing put into bald words. I know Bruce, continued Ginger, and believe me, he isn't the sort of cove to take any kind of flutter without a jolly good motive. Of course he's got tons of money. His old governor was the Carmile of—Carmile Brent and company, coal mines up in Wales and all that sort of thing, and I suppose he must have left Bruce something like half a million. No need for the fellow to have worked at all if he hadn't wanted to. As far as having the stuff goes, he's in a position to back all the shows he wants to, but the point is, it's right out of his line. He doesn't do that sort of thing, not a drop of sporting blood in the chap. Why I've known him stick the whole family on to me just because it got noised about that I'd dropped a couple of quid on the Grand National. If he's really brought himself to the point of shelling out on a risky proposition like a show, it means something, take my word for it. And I don't see what else it can mean, except—well, I mean to say—is it likely that he's doing it simply to make your brother look on him as a good egg and a pal, and all that sort of thing? No, it's not, agreed Sally. But don't let's talk about it any more. Tell me all about your trip to Chicago. All right. But returning to this binge for a moment, I don't see how it matters to you one way or the other. You're engaged to another fellow, and when Bruce rolls up and says, What about it? You've simply to tell him that the shot isn't on the board, and will he kindly melt away. Then you hand him his hat and out he goes. Sally gave a troubled laugh. You think that's simple, do you? I suppose you imagine that a girl enjoys that sort of thing? Oh, what's the use of talking about it? It's horrible, and no amount of arguing will make it anything else. Do let's change the subject. How did you like Chicago? Oh, all right. Rather a grubby sort of place. So I've always heard. But you ought not to mind that, being a Londoner. Oh, I didn't mind it. As a matter of fact, I had rather a good time. So our one or two shows, you know, got in on my face as your brother's representative, which was all to the good. By the way, it's rummy how you run into people when you move about, isn't it? You talk as if you had been dashing about the streets with your eyes shut. Did you meet somebody you knew? It's a chap I hadn't seen for years. Was it school with him, as a matter of fact? Fellow named Foster. But I expect you know him, too, don't you? By name at any rate, he wrote your brother's show. Sally's heart jumped. Oh, did you meet Gerald Foster? Run into him one night at the theatre. And you were really at school with him? Yes. He was in the footer team with me my last year. Was he a scrum half, too, asked Sally, dimpling? Ginger looked shocked. You don't have two scrum halves in a team, he said, pained at this ignorance on a vital matter. The scrum half is the half who works the scrum, and— Yes, you told me that at Roville. That was Gerald, Mr. Foster, then—a six and seven-eighths or something? He was a wing three, said Ginger, with a gravity befitting his theme—rather fast, with a fairly decent swerve, but he would not learn to give the reverse pass inside to the centre. Gastly, said Sally. If, said Ginger earnestly, a wing bottled up by his wing and the back, the only thing he can do, if he doesn't want to be bundled into touch, is to give the reverse pass. I know, said Sally, if I've thought that once I've thought it a hundred times, how nice it must have been for you meeting again. I suppose you had all sorts of things to talk about. Ginger shook his head. Not such a frightful lot. We were never very thick. You see, this chap Foster was by way of being a bit of a worm. What? A tick, explained Ginger. A rotter. He was pretty generally barred at school. Personally, I never had any use for him at all. Sally stiffened. She had liked Ginger up to that moment, and later on, no doubt, she would resume her liking for him, but in the immediate moment which followed these words, she found herself regarding him with stormy hostility. How dare he sit there saying things like that about Gerald! Ginger, who was lighting a cigarette without a care in the world, proceeded to develop his theme. It's a rummy thing about school. Generally if a fellow's good at games, in the cricket team or the footer team, and so forth, he can hardly help being fairly popular. But this blighter Foster somehow, nobody seemed very keen on him. Of course he had a few of his own pals, but most of the chaps rather gave him a miss. It may have been because he was a bit sighty, had rather an edge on him, you know. Personally the reason I barred him was because he wasn't straight. You didn't notice it if you weren't throwing a goodish bit with him, of course, but he and I were in the same house, and— Sally managed to control her voice, though it shook a little. I ought to tell you, she said, and her tone would have warned him had he been less occupied. But Mr. Foster is a great friend of mine. But Ginger was intent on the lighting of his cigarette, a delicate operation with the breeze blowing in through the open window. His head was bent, and he had formed his hands into a protective framework, which half hid his face. If you take my tip, he mumbled, you'll drop him, he's a wrongon. He spoke with the absent-minded drawl of preoccupation, and Sally could keep the conflagration under no longer. She was a flame from head to foot. It may interest you to know, she said, shooting the words out like bullets from between clenched teeth. That Gerald Foster is the man I am engaged to marry. Ginger's head came slowly up from his cupped hands. Amazement was in his eyes and a sort of horror. The cigarette hung limply from his mouth. He did not speak, but sat looking at her, dazed. Then the match burnt his fingers and he dropped it with a start. The sharp sting of it seemed to wake him. He blinked. You're joking, he said feebly. It was a note of wistfulness in his voice. It isn't true. Sally kicked the leg of her chair irritably. She read insolent disapproval into the words. He was daring to criticise. Of course it's true. But a look of hopeless misery came into Ginger's pleasant face. He hesitated. Then with the air of a man bracing himself to a dreadful but unavoidable ordeal he went on. He spoke gruffly and his eyes, which had been fixed on Sally's, wandered down to the match on the carpet. It was still glowing and mechanically he put a foot on it. Foster's married, he said shortly. He was married the day before I left Chicago. Three. It seemed to Ginger that in the silence which followed, brooding over the room like a living presence, even the noises in the street had ceased, as though what he had said had been a spell cutting Sally and himself off from the outer world. Only the little clock on the mantelpiece ticked, ticked, ticked, like a heart beating fast. He stared straight before him, conscious of a strange rigidity. He felt incapable of movement, as he had sometimes felt in nightmares, and not for all the wealth of America could he have raised his eyes just then to Sally's face. He could see her hands. They had tightened on the arm of the chair. The knuckles were white. He was blaming himself bitterly now for his oafish clumsiness in blurting out the news so abruptly, and yet curiously in his remorse there was something of elation. Never before had he felt so near to her. It was as though a barrier that had been between them had fallen. Something moved. It was Sally's hand slowly relaxing. The fingers loosened their grip, tightened again then as if reluctantly relaxed once more. The blood flowed back. Your cigarette's out. The water started violently. Her voice coming suddenly out of the silence had struck him like a blow. Oh, thanks! He forced himself to light another match. It sputtered noisily in the stillness. He blew it out, and the uncanny quiet fell again. Ginger drew at his cigarette mechanically. For an instant he had seen Sally's face, white-cheeked and bright-eyed. The chin tilted like a flag flying over a stricken field. His mood changed. All his emotions had crystallized into a dull, futile rage, a helpless fury directed at a man a thousand miles away. Sally spoke again. Her voice sounded small and far off, an odd flatness in it. Married. Ginger threw his cigarette out of the window. He was shocked to find that he was smoking. Nothing could have been farther from his intention than to smoke. He nodded. Whom has he married? Ginger coughed. Something was sticking in his throat, and speech was difficult. A girl called Dolan. Oh! Elsa Dolan? Yes. Elsa Dolan. Sally drummed with her fingers on the arm of the chair. Oh! Elsa Dolan? There was silence again. The little clock ticked fossily on the mantelpiece. Out in the street automobile horns were blowing. From somewhere in the distance came faintly the rumble of an elevated train. Familiar sounds, but they came to Sally now with a curious, unreal sense of novelty. She felt as though she had been projected into another world where everything was new and strange and horrible—everything except Ginger. Without him, in the mere sight of him, there was something known and heartening. Suddenly she became aware that she was feeling that Ginger was behaving extremely well. She seemed to have been taken out of herself, and to be regarding the scene from outside, regarding it coolly and critically, and it was plain to her that Ginger, in this upheaval of all things, was burying himself perfectly. He had attempted no banal words of sympathy. He had said nothing, and he was not looking at her. And Sally felt that sympathy just now would be torture, and that she could not have borne to be looked at. Ginger was wonderful. In that curious, detached spirit that had come upon her, she examined him impartially, and gratitude welled up from the very depths of her. There he sat, saying nothing and doing nothing, as if he knew that all she needed, the only thing that could keep her sane in this world of nightmare, was the sight of that dear, flaming head of his that made her feel that the world had not slipped away from her altogether. Ginger did not move. The room had grown almost dark now, a spear of light from a street lamp shown in through the window. Sally got up abruptly, slowly, gradually, inch by inch, the great, suffocating cloud which had been crushing her had lifted. She felt alive again. Her black hour had gone, and she was back in the world of living things once more. She was a fire with a fierce tearing pain that tormented her almost beyond endurance, but dimly she sensed the fact that she had passed through something that was worse than pain, and with Ginger's stolid presence to aid her had passed triumphantly. Go and have dinner, Ginger, she said. You must be starving. Ginger came to life like a courtier in the palace of the sleeping beauty. He shook himself and rose stiffly from his chair. Oh, no, he said. Not a bit, really. Sally switched on the light and set him blinking. She could bear to be looked at now. Go and dine, she said, dine lavishly and luxuriously. You've certainly earned— Her voice faltered for a moment. She held out her hand. Ginger, she said shakily, I—Ginger, you're a pal. When he had gone, Sally sat down and began to cry. Then she dried her eyes in a business-like manner. There, Miss Nicholas, she said, you couldn't have done that an hour ago. We will now boil you an egg for your dinner, and see how that suits you. End of Chapter X. Read by Kara Schallenberg on October 16, 2008, in San Diego, California. Chapter 11 of The Adventures of Sally. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Adventures of Sally by P. G. Woodhouse. Chapter 11. Sally Runs Away. If Ginger Kemp had been asked to enumerate his good qualities, it is not probable that he would have drawn up a very lengthy list. He might have started by claiming for himself the virtue of meaning well, but after that he would have had to chew the pencil in prolonged meditation. And even if he could eventually have added one or two further items to the catalogue, tact and delicacy of feeling would not have been among them. Yet by staying away from Sally during the next few days he showed considerable delicacy. It was not easy to stay away from her, but he forced himself to do so. He argued from his own tastes, and was strongly of opinion that in times of travail solitude was what the sufferer most desired. In his time he too had had what he would have described as nasty jars, and on these occasions all he had asked was to be allowed to sit and think things over, and fight his battle out by himself. By Saturday, however, he had come to the conclusion that some form of action might now be taken. Saturday was rather a good day for picking up the threads again. He had not to go to the office, and, what was still more to the point, he had just drawn his weak salary. Mrs. Meacher had deftly taken a certain amount of this off him, but enough remained to enable him to attempt consolation on a fairly princely scale. There presented itself to him as a judicious move, the idea of hiring a car, and taking Sally out to dinner at one of the road-houses he had heard about up the Boston Post Road. He examined the scheme, the more he looked at it the better it seemed. He was helped to this decision by the extraordinary perfection of the weather. The weather of late had been a revelation to Ginger. It was his first experience of America's Indian summer, and it had quite overcome him. As he stood on the roof of Mrs. Meacher's establishment on the Saturday morning, thrilled by the velvet wonder of the sunshine, it seemed to him that the only possible way of passing such a day was to take Sally for a ride in an open car. The Maison Meacher was a lofty building on one of the side streets, at the lower end of the avenue. From its roof, after you had worked your way through the groves of washing which hung limply from the clothes-line, you could see many things of interest. To the left lay Washington Square, full of somnolent Italians and roller-skating children. To the right was a spectacle which never failed to intrigue Ginger, the high smoke stacks of a quenard liner moving slowly down the river, sticking up over the house-tops as if the boat was travelling down Ninth Avenue. Today there were four of these funnels, causing Ginger to deduce the Mauritania. As the boat on which he had come over from England, the Mauritania had a sentimental interest for him. He stood watching her stately progress till the higher buildings farther down the town shut her from his sight. John picked his way through the washing, and went down to his room to get his hat. A quarter of an hour later he was in the hallway of Sally's apartment-house, gazing with ill-concealed disgust at the surge-clad back of his cousin Mr. Carmile, who was engaged in conversation with a gentleman in overalls. No carefree prospector singing his way through the Mojave Desert, and suddenly finding himself confronted by a rattlesnake, could have experienced so abrupt a change of mood as did Ginger at this revolting spectacle. Even in their native Piccadilly it had been unpleasant to run into Mr. Carmile. To find him here now was nothing short of nauseating. Only one thing could have brought him to this place. Obviously he must have come to see Sally, and with a sudden sinking of the heart Ginger remembered the shiny, expensive automobile which he had seen waiting at the door. He, it was clear, was not the only person to whom the idea had occurred of taking Sally for a drive on this golden day. He was still standing there when Mr. Carmile swung round with a frown on his dark face, which seemed to say that he had not found the janitor's conversation entertaining. The sight of Ginger plainly did nothing to lighten his gloom. Hello, he said. Hello, said Ginger. Uncomfortable silence followed these civilities. Have you come to see Miss Nicholas? Why, yes. She isn't here, said Mr. Carmile, and the fact that he had found someone to share the bad news seemed to cheer him a little. Not here? No. Apparently, Bruce Carmile's scowl betrayed that resentment which a well-balanced man cannot but feel at the unreasonableness of others. Apparently for some extraordinary reason she has taken it into her head to dash over to England. Ginger tottered the unexpectedness of the blow was crushing. He followed his cousin out into the sunshine in a sort of dream. Mr. Carmile was addressing the driver of the expensive automobile. I shall not want the car. You can take it back to the garage. The chauffeur, a moody man, opened one half-closed eye and spat cautiously. It was the way Rockefeller would have spat when approaching the crisis of some delicate financial negotiation. You'll have to pay just the same, he observed, opening his other eye to lend emphasis to the words. Of course I shall pay, snapped Mr. Carmile irritably. How much is it? Money passed. The car rolled off. Gone to England, said Ginger dizzily. Yes, gone to England. But why? How the devil do I know why? Because Carmile would have found his best friend trying at this moment. Gaping Ginger gave him almost a physical pain. All I know is what the janitor told me, that she sailed on the Maritania this morning. The tragic irony of this overcame, Ginger, that he should have stood on the roof, calmly watching the boat down the river. He nodded absently to Mr. Carmile and walked off. He had no further remarks to make. The warmth had gone out of the sunshine, and all interest had departed from his life. He felt dull, listless, at a loose end. Not even the thought that his cousin, a careful man with his money, had had to pay days higher for a car which he could not use, brought him any balm. He loafed aimlessly about the streets. He wandered in the park and out again. The park bored him. The streets bored him. The whole city bored him. A city without sally in it was a drab, futile city, and nothing that the sun could do to brighten it could make it otherwise. Night came at last, and with it a letter. It was the first even passably pleasant thing that had happened to Ginger in the whole of this dreary and unprofitable day, for the envelope bore the crest of the good ship Maritania. He snatched it covetously from the letter rack and carried it upstairs to his room. Very few of the rooms at Mrs. Meacher's boarding-house struck any note of luxury. Mrs. Meacher was not one of your fashionable interior decorators. She considered that when she had added a Morris chair to the essentials which make up a bedroom, she had gone as far in the direction of Pomp as any guest at seven-and-a-half per could expect her to go. As a rule the severity of his surroundings afflicted Ginger with a touch of gloom when he went to bed, but to-night, such is the magic of a letter from the right person, he was uplifted and almost gay. There are moments when even illuminated texts over the wash-stand cannot wholly quell us. There was nothing of haste and much of ceremony in Ginger's method of approaching the perusal of his correspondence. He bore himself after the manner of a small boy in the presence of unexpected ice-cream gloating for a while before embarking on the treat, anxious to make it last out. His first move was to feel in the breast-pocket of his coat and produce the photograph of Sally which he had feloniously removed from her apartment. At this he looked long and earnestly before propping it up within easy reach of his basin to be handy, if required, for purposes of reference. He then took off his coat, collar, and shoes, filled and lit a pipe, placed pouch and matches on the arm of the Morris chair, and drew that chair up so that he could sit with his feet on the bed. Having maneuvered himself into a position of ease he lit his pipe again and took up the letter. He looked at the crest, the handwriting of the address, and the postmark. He waited in his hand. It was a bulky letter. He took Sally's photograph from the wash stand and scrutinized it once more. Then he lit his pipe again and, finally wriggling himself into the depths of the chair, opened the envelope. GINGER DEAR Having read so far, Ginger found it necessary to take up the photograph and study it with an even greater intentness than before. He gazed at it for many minutes, then laid it down and lit his pipe again. Then he went on with the letter. GINGER DEAR I'm afraid this address is going to give you rather a shock, and I'm feeling very guilty. I'm running away, and I haven't even stopped to say good-bye. I can't help it. I know it's weak and cowardly, but I simply can't help it. I stood it for a day or two, and then I saw that it was no good. Thank you for leaving me alone and not coming round to see me. Nobody else but you would have done that, but then nobody has ever been or ever could be so understanding as you. Ginger found himself compelled at this point to look at the photograph again. There was too much in New York to remind me. That's the worst of being happy in a place. When things go wrong you find there are too many ghosts about. I just couldn't stand it. I tried, but I couldn't. I'm going away to get cured, if I can. Mr. Fawcett is over in England, and when I went down to Mrs. Meacher for my letters I found one from him. His brother is dead, you know, and he has inherited, of all things, a fashionable dress-making place in Regent Street. His brother was Laurette Essie. I suppose he will sell the business later on, but just at present the poor old deer is apparently quite bewildered, and that doesn't seem to have occurred to him. He kept saying in his letter how much he wished I was with him to help him, and I was tempted and ran. Anything to get away from the ghosts and have something to do. I don't suppose I shall feel much better in England, but at least every street-corner won't have associations. Don't ever be happy anywhere, Ginger. It's too big a risk, much too big a risk. There was a letter from Elsa Dolan, too, bubbling over with affection. We had always been tremendous friends. Of course she never knew anything about my being engaged to Gerald. I lent Fillmore the money to buy that piece, which gave Elsa her first big chance, and so she's very grateful. She says if ever she gets the opportunity of doing me a good turn, aren't things muddled? And there was a letter from Gerald. I was expecting one, of course, but what would you have done, Ginger? Would you have read it? I sat with it in front of me for an hour, I should think, just looking at the envelope and then—you see, what was the use? I could guess exactly the sort of thing that would be in it, and reading it would only have hurt a lot more. The thing was done, so why bother about explanations? What good are explanations, anyway? They don't help. They don't do anything. I burned it, Ginger. The last letter I shall ever get from him. I made a bonfire on the bathroom floor, and it smoldered and went brown and then flared a little, and every now and then I lit another match and kept it burning, and at last it was just black ashes and a stain on the tiles—just a mess. Ginger, burn this letter, too. I am pouring out all the poison to you, hoping it will make me feel better. You don't mind, do you? But I know you don't. If ever anybody had a real pal. It's a dreadful thing, Fascination, Ginger. It grips you and you are helpless. One can be so sensible and reasonable about other people's love affairs. When I was working at the dance-place I told you about there was a girl who fell in love with the most awful little beast. He had a mean mouth and shiny black hair brushed straight back, and anybody would have seen what he was. But this girl wouldn't listen to a word. I talked to her by the hour. It makes me smile now when I think how sensible and level-headed I was, but she wouldn't listen. In some mysterious way this was the man she wanted, and, of course, everything happened that one knew would happen. If one could manage one's own life as well as one can manage other people's. If all this wretched thing of mine had happened to some other girl, how beautifully I could have proved that it was the best thing that could have happened, and that a man who could behave as Gerald has done wasn't worth worrying about. I can just hear myself, but you see whatever he has done Gerald is still Gerald, and Sally is still Sally, and however much I argue I can't get away from that. All I can do is to come howling to my red-headed pal when I know just as well as he does that a girl of any spirit would be dignified, and keep her troubles to herself, and be much too proud to let anyone know that she was hurt. Proud. That's the real trouble, Ginger. My pride has been battered and chopped up, and broken into as many pieces as you broke Mr. Scrimgeur's stick. What pitiful creatures we are! Girls, I mean. At least I suppose a good many girls are like me. If Gerald had died, and I had lost him that way, I know quite well I shouldn't be feeling as I do now. I should have been broken-hearted, but it wouldn't have been the same. It's my pride that is hurt. I have always been a bossy, cock-sure little creature, swaggering about the world like an English sparrow, and now I'm paying for it. Oh, Ginger, I'm paying for it. I wonder if running away is going to do me any good at all. Perhaps if Mr. Fawcett has some real hard work for me to do. Of course I know exactly how all this has come about. Else is pretty and attractive, but the point is that she is a success, and as a success she appeals to Gerald's weakest side. He worships success. She is going to have a marvellous career, and she can help Gerald on in his. He can write plays for her to star in. What have I to offer against that? Yes, I know it's groveling and contemptible of me to say that, Ginger. I ought to be above it, oughtn't I? Talking as if I were competing for some prize. But I haven't any pride left. Oh, well. There, I've poured it all out, and I really do feel a little better just for the moment. It won't last, of course, but even a minute is something. Ginger, dear, I shan't see you for ever so long, even if we ever do meet again. But you'll try to remember that I'm thinking of you a whole lot, won't you? I feel responsible for you. You're my baby. You've got started now, and you've only to stick to it. Please, please, please don't make a hash of it. Good-bye. You did find that photograph of me that we were looking for that afternoon in the apartment, or I would send it to you. Then you could have kept it on your mantelpiece, and whenever you felt inclined to make a hash of anything I would have caught your eye sternly and you would have pulled up. Good-bye, Ginger. I shall have to stop now. The mail is just closing. Always your pal, wherever I am. Sally. Ginger laid the letter down, and a little sound escaped him that was half a sigh, half an oath. He was wondering whether even now some desirable end might not be achieved by going to Chicago and breaking Gerald Foster's neck. Abandoning this scheme as impracticable and not being able to think of anything else to do, he relit his pipe and started to read the letter again. End of Chapter 11. Read on October 19, 2008, in San Diego, California. Chapter 12 of THE ADVENTURES OF Sally. THE ADVENTURES OF Sally by P. G. Woodhouse. CHAPTER XII. Some Letters for Ginger. Loret A. C. Regent Street, London, W., England. January 21. Dear Ginger, I'm feeling better. As it's three months, since I last wrote to you, no doubt you will say to yourself that I would be a poor, weak-minded creature if I wasn't. I suppose one ought to be able to get over anything in three months. Unfortunately, I'm afraid I haven't quite succeeded in doing that, but at least I have managed to get my troubles stowed away in the cellar, and I'm not dragging them out and looking at them all the time. That's something, isn't it? I ought to give you all my impressions of London, I suppose, but I've grown so used to the place that I don't think I have any now. I seem to have been here years and years. You will see by the address that Mr. Fawcett has not yet sold his inheritance. He expects to do so very soon, he tells me. There is a rich-looking man with whiskers and a keen eye whom he is always lunching with, and I think big deals are in progress. Poor dear, he is crazy to get away into the country and settle down and grow ducks and things. London has disappointed him. It is not the place it used to be. Until quite lately, when he grew resigned, he used to wander about in a disconsolate sort of way, trying to locate the landmarks of his youth. He has not been in England for nearly thirty years. The trouble is, it seems, that about once in every thirty years a sort of craze for change comes over London, and they paint a shop front red instead of blue, and that upsets the return exiled dreadfully. Mr. Fawcett feels like Rip Van Winkle. His first shock was when he found that the Empire was a theater now, instead of a music hall. Then he was told that another music hall, the Tivoli, had been pulled down altogether, and when on top of that he went to look at a baker's shop in Rupert Street, over which he had lodgings in the eighties, and discovered that it had been turned into a dressmaker's, he grew very melancholy, and only cheered up a little when a lovely magenta fog came on and showed him that some things were still going along as in the good old days. I am kept quite busy at Lorette's sea, thank goodness, not being a French scholar like you. Do you remember Jules? I thought at first that C was the name of the junior partner, and looked forward to meeting him. Miss Nicholas, shake hands with Mr. C, one of your greatest admirers. I hold down the female equivalent of your job at the Fillmore Nicholas theatrical enterprise as limited. That is to say, I'm a sort of right-hand woman. I hang around and sidle up to the customers when they come in and say, Chalming weather modem, which is usually a black lie, and pass them on to the staff who do the actual work. I shouldn't mind going on like this for the next few years, but Mr. Fawcett is determined to sell. I don't know if you are like that, but every other Englishman I've ever met seems to have an ambition to own a house and lot in loam-shire or hans or salop or somewhere. Their one object in life is to make some money and buy back the old place, which was sold, of course, at the end of Act I, to pay the heir's gambling debts. Mr. Fawcett, when he was a small boy, used to live in a little village in Gloucestershire, near a place called Syrinchester. At least it isn't. It's called Sissister, which I bet you didn't know. And after forgetting about it for fifty years he has suddenly been bitten by the desire to end his days there, surrounded by pigs and chickens. He took me down to see the place the other day. Oh, ginger, this English country! Why any of you ever live in towns I can't think. Old, old gray stone houses with yellow haystacks and lovely squelchy muddy lanes and great fat trees and blue hills in the distance. The peace of it! If ever I sell my soul I shall insist on the devil giving me at least forty years in some English country place in exchange. Perhaps you will think from all this that I am too much occupied to remember your existence. Just to show how interested I am in you, let me tell you that, when I was reading the paper a week ago, I happened to see the headline, International Match. It didn't seem to mean anything at first, and then I suddenly recollected. This was the thing you had once been a snip for. So I went down to a place called Twickenham, where this football game was to be, to see the sort of thing you used to do before I took charge of you, and made you a respectable right hand man. There was an enormous crowd there, and I was nearly squeezed to death, but I bore it for your sake. I found out that the English team were the ones wearing white shirts, and that the ones in red were the Welsh. I said to the man next to me, after he had finished yelling himself black in the face, Could you kindly inform me which is the English scrum half? But just at that moment the players came quite near where I was, and about a dozen assassins in red hurled themselves violently on top of a meek-looking little fellow who had just fallen on the ball. Ginger, you are well out of it. That was the scrum half, and I gathered that that sort of thing was a mere commonplace in his existence. Stopping a rush, it is called, and he is expected to do it all the time. The idea of you ever going in for such brutal sports. You thank your stars that you are safe on your little stool in Fillmore's outer office, and that, if anybody jumps on top of you now, you can call a cop. Do you mean to say you really used to do these daredevil feats? You must have hidden depths in you which I have never suspected. As I was taking a ride down Piccadilly the other day on top of a bus, I saw somebody walking along who seemed familiar. And it was Mr. Carmile, so he's back in England again. He didn't see me, thank goodness, I don't want to meet anybody just at present who reminds me of New York. Thanks for telling me all the news, but please don't do it again. It makes me remember, and I don't want to. It's this way, Ginger, let me write to you, because it really does relieve me, but don't answer my letters. Do you mind? I'm sure you'll understand. So Fillmore and Gladys Winch are married. From what I have seen of her it's the best thing that has ever happened to Brother F. She is a splendid girl. I must write to him. Lorette C. London. March 12. Dear Ginger, I saw in a Sunday paper last week that the Primrose Way had been produced in New York and was a great success. Well I'm very glad, but I don't think the papers ought to print things like that. It's unsettling. Next day I did one of those funny things you do when you're feeling blue and lonely and a long way from everybody. I called at your club and asked for you. Such a nice old man in uniform at the desk said in a fatherly way that you hadn't been in lately, and he rather fancied you were out of town, but would I take a seat while he inquired? He then summoned a tiny boy, also in uniform, and the child skipped off chanting, Mr. Kemp, Mr. Kemp, in a shrill trouble. It gave me such an odd feeling to hear your name echoing in the distance. I felt so ashamed for giving them all that trouble, and when the boy came back I slipped tuppence into his palm, which I suppose was against all the rules, though he seemed to like it. Mr. Fawcett has sold the business and retired to the country, and I am rather at a loose end. Monks Crofton, whatever that means, much Middleford, Salop, Slang for Shropshire, England. April 18. Dear Ginger, what's the use? What is the use? I do all I can to get right away from New York, and New York comes after me and tracks me down in my hiding-place. A week or so ago, as I was walking down the strand in an aimless sort of way, out there came right on top of me, who do you think? Fillmore, arm in arm with Mr. Carmile. I couldn't dodge. In the first place Mr. Carmile had seen me. In the second place it's a day's journey to dodge poor dear Fillmore now. I blushed for him. Ginger, right there in the strand, I blushed for him. In my worst dreams I had never pictured him so enormous. Upon what meat doth this hour Fillmore feed that he has grown so great! Poor Gladys! When she looks at him she must feel like a big amist. Apparently Fillmore is still full of big schemes, for he talked eerily about buying all sorts of English plays. He has come over, as I suppose you know, to arrange about putting on the primrose way over here. He is staying at the Savoy, and they took me off there to lunch, whooping joyfully as over a strayed lamb. It was the worst thing that could possibly have happened to me. Fillmore talked broadway without a pause, till by the time he had worked his way past the French pastry, and was lolling back, sitting a little sturturously, waiting for the coffee and liqueurs. He had got me so homesick that, if it hadn't been that I didn't want to make a public exhibition of myself, I should have broken down and howled. It was crazy of me ever to go near the Savoy. Of course it's simply an annex to broadway. There were Americans at every table as far as the eye could reach. I might just as well have been at the Aster. Well if fate insists in bringing New York to England for my special discomfiture, I suppose I have got to put up with it. I just let events take their course, and I have been drifting ever since. Two days ago I drifted here. Mr. Carmile invited Fillmore—he seems to love Fillmore—and me to Monks Crofton, and I hadn't even the shadow of an excuse for refusing. So I came, and I am now sitting writing to you in an enormous bedroom with an open fire and armchairs and every other sort of luxury. Fillmore is out golfing. He sails for New York on Saturday, on the Mauritania. I am horrified to hear from him that, in addition to all his other big schemes, he is now promoting a fight for the lightweight championship in Jersey City, and guaranteeing enormous sums to both boxers. It's no good arguing with him. If you do, he simply quotes figures to show the fortunes other people have made out of these things. Besides it's too late now, anyway. As far as I can make out, the fight is going to take place in another week or two. All the same it makes my flesh creep. Well, it's no use worrying, I suppose. Let's change the subject. Do you know Monks Crofton? Probably you don't, as I seem to remember hearing something said about it being a recent purchase. Mr. Carmile bought it from some lord or other who had been losing money on the stock exchange. I hope you haven't seen it, anyway, because I want to describe it at great length. I want to pour out my soul about it. Ginger, what has England ever done to deserve such paradises? I thought, in my ignorance, that Mr. Fawcett's sister place was pretty good, but it doesn't even begin. It can't compete. Of course, his is just an ordinary country house, and this is a seat. Monks Crofton is the sort of place they used to write about in the English novels. You know. The sunset was falling on the walls of G. Blank Castle in B. Blankshire, hard by the picturesque village of H. Blank, and not a stone's throw from the hamlet of J. Blank. I can imagine Tennyson's mod living here. It is one of the stately homes of England, how beautiful they stand, and I'm crazy about it. You motor up from the station, and after you have gone about three miles, you turn in at a big iron gate with stone posts on each side, with stone beasts on them. Close by the gate is the cutest little house with an old man inside it, who pops out and touches his hat. This is only the lodge, really, but you think you have arrived, so you get all ready to jump out, and then the car goes rolling on for another fifty miles or so through beach woods full of rabbits, and open meadows with deer in them. Finally, just as you think you are going on forever, you whizz round a corner and there's the house. You don't get a glimpse of it till then, because the trees are too thick. It's very large, and sort of low and square, with a kind of tower at one side, and the most fascinating upper porch sort of thing with battlements. I suppose in the old days you used to stand on this and drop molten lead on visitors' heads. Wonderful lawns all round, and shrubberies, and a lake that you can just see where the ground dips beyond the fields. Of course it's too early yet for them to be out, but to the left of the house there's a place where there will be about a million roses when June comes round, and all along the side of the rose garden is a high wall of old red brick, who it shuts off the kitchen garden. I went exploring there this morning. It's an enormous place with hot houses and things, and there's the cunningest farm at one end with a stable yard full of puppies that just tear the heart out of you. They're so sweet. And a big sleepy cat, which sits and blinks in the sun and lets the puppies run all over her. And there's a lovely stillness, and you can hear everything growing, and thrushes, and blackbirds. Oh, ginger, it's heavenly. But there's a catch. It's a case of where every prospect pleases and only man is vile, at least not exactly vile, I suppose, but terribly stodgy. I can see now why you couldn't hit it off with the family, because I've seen them all. They're here, yes, Uncle Donald, and all of them. Is it a habit of your family to collect in gangs, or have I just happened to stumble into an accidental old home week? When I came down to dinner the first evening the drawing room was full to bursting point. Not simply because Fillmore was there, but because there were uncles and aunts all over the place. I felt like a small lion in a den of Daniels. I know exactly now what you mean about the family. They look at you. Of course it's all right for me, because I am snowy white clear through, but I can just imagine what it must have been like for you with your permanently guilty conscience. You must have had an awful time. By the way, it's going to be a delicate business getting this letter through to you, rather like carrying the despatches through the enemy's lines in a civil war play. You're supposed to leave letters on the table in the hall, and someone collects them in the afternoon and takes them down to the village on a bicycle. But if I do that some aunt or uncle is bound to see it, and I shall be an object of loathing, for it is no light matter, my lad, to be caught having correspondence with a human gymson weed like you. It would blast me socially. At least so I gather from the way they behaved when your name came up at dinner last night. Somebody mentioned you, and the most awful roasting part he broke loose, Uncle Donald acting as cheerleader. I said feebly that I had met you and had found you part human, and there was an awful silence till they all started at the same time to show me where I was wrong, and how cruelly my girlish inexperience had deceived me. A young and innocent half-portion like me, it appears, is absolutely incapable of suspecting the true infamy of the dregs of society. You aren't fit to speak to the likes of me, being the kindest estimate little more than a blot on the human race. I tell you this in case you may imagine you are popular with a family. You're not. So I shall have to exercise a good deal of sneaky craft in smuggling this letter through. I'll take it down to the village myself if I can sneak away, but it's going to be pretty difficult, because for some reason I seem to be a centre of attraction. Except when I take refuge in my room hardly a moment passes, without an aunt or an uncle popping out and having a cozy talk with me. It sometimes seems as though they were weighing me in the balance. Well, let them weigh. Time to dress for dinner now. Good-bye. Yours in the balance. Sally. P.S., you were perfectly right about your Uncle Donald's moustache, but I don't agree with you that it is more his misfortune than his fault. I think he does it on purpose. Just for the moment, Monks Crofton, much Middleford, Salop, England. April 20. Dear Ginger, leaving here to-day, in disgrace, hard, cold looks from the family. Strained silences. Uncle Donald far from chummy. You can guess what has happened. I might have seen it coming. I can see now that it was in the air all along. Fillmore knows nothing about it. He left just before it happened. I shall see him very soon, for I have decided to come back and stop running away from things any longer. It's cowardly to skulk about over here. Besides, I'm feeling so much better that I believe I can face the ghosts. Anyway, I'm going to try. See you almost as soon as you get this. I shall mail this in London, and I suppose it will come over by the same boat as me. It's hardly worth writing, really, of course, but I have sneaked up to my room to wait till the motor arrives to take me to the station, and at something to do. I can hear muffled voices. The family talking me over, probably, saying they never really liked me all along. Oh, well. Here's moving in an orderly manner to the exit—Sally. End of Chapter 12, read on January 29, 2009, in San Diego, California.