Fleming shook hands with his visitors.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Fleming,” said Dorothy. “It’s so kind of you to give me so much of your time.”
“We appreciate your advice so much,” added Mrs. Loamford.
Fleming bowed.
“He’s very nice,” observed Dorothy. “Very nice"—and very meaningless. How could Mr. Fleming form any opinion of her singing after one song? This might be an audition, but it was an audition of little significance. She wondered whether all music critics looked like Fleming or behaved so suavely. She had always thought of them as savage, sarcastic gentlemen whose chief joy in life was ironic destruction. She remembered Madame Graaberg’s only words on the subject: “The critics killed my poor Paul.”
“We'll look up this man Maxwell,” said Mrs. Loamford. “Perhaps I’d better take your Uncle Elliott with me to settle the business side of it.”
"Please don't," begged Dorothy. "Tommy says it's all automatic. I'm sure the Underwood bureau is reliable. We used to get passes for their concerts at St. Cecilia's."
"Well, we'll see," commented Mrs. Loamford.
Dorothy didn't report promptly to Tommy. Tommy heard nothing of her visit to Fleming for ten days. Then he telephoned.
"I've been so busy," apologized Dorothy, "that I just didn't get to phoning you. Mr. Fleming was lovely."
"Where did he tell you to go?"
"To the Underwood bureau. Mr. Maxwell, I think, he said."
"It's a good place."
There was silence across the wire.
[91]
