his hat side-tilted on his head, seated before his office desk waiting for his stenographer to return from luncheon. He received them with a genial nod, without rising—until Don introduced her formally; then he took off his hat and held out his huge hand to her rather amusedly. "Sit down. Sit down," he said. "What can I do for you, eh?"
Don brought her an office chair and stood beside her protectingly while he explained what Kidder could do for them; and Kidder listened with the grave air of an elder in a child's game. "Well," he said, "let's see now. Let's see where we're at." He took up some sheets of tabulated reports from his desk, and went through them solemnly. "Never been on the stage before, eh?"
"No," Don answered for her. "We're Is it We'd like to be together in 'The Rajah's Ruby,' if we could."
"Uh-huh?" He took up a pen. "About five-foot-eight or nine? . . . Let's see, now."
His pen travelled down a column of names one by one. He paused, reflected, and made a deciding check-mark. "That'll be all right. Report to Mrs. Connors, Monday, at the Classic." He looked up at the entrance of his stenographer. "Here," he said to her. "Transfer Miss Delancey to rehearsals for 'The White Feather.' Miss Richardson here"—he pointed over his shoulder with his pen handle—"takes her place with the 'Ruby.' Same height."
"Well?" He returned to Don. "Keepin' warm these days? The 'Ruby' looks like an all season run,
