Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald
she said over her shoulder, “he isn’t from 2A after all.”
“Shame.” Glad, a dark, languorous beauty, looked Mr Franklin up and down regretfully. “Elsie has all the luck. “Night, Pip.” She and her companion sauntered off, and Mr Franklin, conscious that he was at a rather ridiculous disadvantage, was about to withdraw with what dignity he could, when the small blonde snorted indignantly.
“Of all the rotten tricks! D’you know, I haven’t been stood up since I was in the chorus? Brewster’s Millions, that was – and just as well, really; I think he was married –”
“I’m afraid –”
“’Course, in the chorus, you learn to expect it – now and then. But when you get out in front – well, when you have a solo, and if you’ve got any kind of figure at all – and I have, no mistake about it – well, you don’t get billings as ‘The Pocket Venus’ if you haven’t, do you? Huh! Of all the disky beasts! Blow him – whoever he was. I could have done with dinner at the Troc., too,” she added wistfully. “Hold on, I’ll see what’s keeping Elsie. Won’t be a sec.”
“Just a minute!” Mr Franklin spoke sharply, and the blonde checked, startled. “I’m sorry, there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not waiting for Elsie. In fact, I’m not waiting for anyone. I bought these flowers by chance –”
“You’re an American,” said the blonde, smiling brilliantly. “Well, I never!”
“I’m sorry if you were disappointed,” Franklin went on. “But you see—”
“Hold on a shake.” She was considering him, head on one side. She descended the step, still smiling, but with less animation than before. “I think you are the fellow from 2A, aren’t you? And you did send round the card, asking me to dinner at the Troc, didn’t you?”
“I assure you –”
“And then you saw me, close to. And I’ve got a squint. Wasn’t that it?” There was a curl of bitterness at the corner of the pretty mouth. “It’s my damned squint, isn’t it?”
Mr Franklin stood for a moment in silence. He was a level-tempered man, but he had found the last few minutes uncomfortable. He had felt momentarily bewildered, and then slightly foolish, and he was not used to either. The fact that the situation should have been amusing, or that most men would have seen it as an opportunity to further acquaintance with this unusually attractive girl, only increased his natural reserve. And now it was not amusing at all. He found himself at a loss, holding a bunch of flowers (something he had not done since childhood, if then) being reproached by a creature who was apparently preparing to feel aggrieved, through no fault of his. It was new to him, and he must take thought how to deal with it.
“No,” he said at last. “You’re quite wrong. I wasn’t waiting for you, or anyone. I said so. And I didn’t even notice if you had … a squint,” he lied. “I still don’t. And if I did, it wouldn’t make any difference – if I had been waiting for you, I mean.” For Mr Franklin, this was positively garrulous, but in this novel and disturbing situation he felt that frontier chivalry demanded something more. “You’re a remarkably beautiful girl, and anyone who saw you on the stage would be even more … impressed, when he met you. I’m sorry your friend didn’t turn up.”
He stepped back, intending to say good-night and go, but the blonde was regarding him with quizzical amusement.
“My,” she said, “you aren’t half solemn. Look, it’s all right, really. If you’re waiting for Elsie, I’ll be gone in a –”
“I am not waiting for Elsie,” said Mr Franklin emphatically.
“Well, the flowers, I mean … it looks odd. And if you are the chap from Box 2A – well, I don’t mean about the squint, but some fellows really do get quite nervous, you know, and change –”
“And I’m not from Box 2A. I’ve never even been in this theatre –”
“You mean you haven’t seen me singing ‘Boiled Beef and Carrots”? That’s my number, you know – a bit vulgar, but if you’ve got a shape for tights, why, that’s what they give you – and it hasn’t done Marie Lloyd any harm, has it? Are you married – is that it?” she asked speculatively.
“No,” said Mr Franklin patiently, “I’m not.”
“Well, then, that’s all right!” she said cheerfully. “Neither am I. And here we are – I’ve been stood up, and I’m starving – and you’re an American visitor, from the wild and woolly west, seeing the sights of London – you are, aren’t you? Well, then, you can’t go home to … to New York, or wherever it is, and say you missed the chance of taking a musical comedy star to supper in a fashionable restaurant – I don’t know about the Troc., though – I had a bad oyster there last time – but there’s the Cri.; no, that’s getting a bit common. Or there’s Gatti’s, that would do.” She smiled winningly at the silent American. “Well – don’t look so worried! It’s only a dinner – and it’s your own fault, anyway, promenading outside stage doors with bunches of flowers – a likely story! Give ’em here,” and she took the bunch of flowers, surveyed them critically, and dropped them on the pavement. “Now, then,” she put a gloved hand on Mr Franklin’s arm. “Where you going to take me?”
Mr Franklin understood that he was being made the victim of a most practised opportunist, but there was little that he could do about it – or, on reflection, that he wanted to do about it. She was a remarkably good-looking girl, and with all his reserve, he was human. However, it was not in him to capitulate informally; he looked down at her, the dark face thoughtful, and finally nodded.
“Very well. May I take you to supper, Miss …?”
“Delys. Miss Priscilla Delys, of the Folies Satire,” and she dropped him a little mock curtsey. “Enchanted to accept your gracious invitation, Mr …?”
“Franklin. Mark J. Franklin.” He found himself smiling down at her.
“Why have all Americans got a middle initial? You know, like Hiram J. Crinkle? Mind you, I’m one to talk – it’s not really Delys – it’s Sidebotham, but when you sing numbers like ‘Boiled Beef and Carrots’” you need all the style you can get. Priscilla’s real, though – Pip, for short. Come on, let’s get a taxi.”
Without any clear idea of how he got there, Mr Franklin found himself on the main street again, surveying the post-theatre bedlam in the vain hope of spotting an empty cab. But Miss Delys was equal to the occasion; she stepped daintily to the edge of the pavement, removed a glove, inserted two fingers in her mouth, and let out a piercing whistle, followed by a shrill cry of “Oi, Clarence!” A taxi swung into the kerb as though by magic, Miss Delys smiled right and left as heads turned, some obviously in recognition, said “Monico’s, Ginger,” to the driver, and seated herself regally, followed by a diffident but grateful Mr Franklin.
He was still collecting his thoughts as they sped towards the restaurant, which was just as well, since Pip Delys talked non-stop. He learned, in short order, of her career in the chorus of Brewster’s Millions, of her brief sojourn at the Gaiety, and of her emergence as third principal at the Folies Satire, where she hoped for even greater things, “’cos Jenny Slater, who’s second, is sure to go into panto somewhere this season, as principal boy – she’s got the thighs for it, you see, like sides of bacon – an’ Elsie Chappell can’t last much longer – stuck-up cow, just ’cos she started in the chorus at the Savoy – well, I mean, that was back before the Flood, practically, not that she hasn’t got a good voice, ’cos she has, but she’s getting on – must be thirty if she’s a day, and dances like an ostrich.” Miss Delys giggled happily, and Mr Franklin took the opportunity to wonder if thirty was so old, after all.
“Well, I’m twenty-three,” said Pip seriously. “Twenty-three, professionally, that is. I’m twenty, really, but I’ve been in the business five years, and you daren’t tell ’em