" He held out to her a
letter. "Take that to George Fitzalan. He's an old friend of
mine--one I've done a lot for and never asked any favors of.
He may be able to give you something fairly good, right away."
Susan glanced penetratingly at him, saw he had been brooding
over the source of the money that was being spent upon him.
"Very well," said she, "I'll go as soon as I can."
"Go this afternoon," said he with an invalid's fretfulness.
"And when you come this evening you can tell me how you got on."
"Very well. This afternoon. But you know, Rod, there's not a
ghost of a chance."
"I tell you Fitzalan's my friend. He's got some gratitude.
He'll _do_ something."
"I don't want you to get into a mood where you'll be awfully
depressed if I should fail."
"But you'll not fail."
It was evident that Spenser, untaught by experience and
flattered into exaggerating his importance by the solicitude
and deference of doctors and nurses to a paying invalid, had
restored to favor his ancient enemy--optimism, the certain
destroyer of any man who does not shake it off. She went away,
depressed and worried. When she should come back with the only
possible news, what would be the effect upon him--and he still
in a critical stage? As the afternoon must be given to
business, she decided to go straight uptown, hoping to catch
Fitzalan before he went out to lunch. And twenty minutes after
making this decision she was sitting in the anteroom of a suite
of theatrical offices in the Empire Theater building.
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