Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1921)

Photoplay Magazine 37 It takes no great power of deduction to come to the point of Dolly's reading Noah Vale's letter and the freshly dictated and very terse reply. "Why, Daddy!" she cried out, reading the embryonic dismissal over, very closely over, Johnny Smith's shoulder; "why, Daddy, he's a relation!" "Most of 'em are," snapped Roderick Faye, "by some hook or crook." "Oh, but," said Dolly, "this man is. I can feel it. Besides, I remember mother mentioning a 'Noah' somebody or other. The name was so arkish and funny. I think I'll investigate this case, Dad. You never can tell." Roderick Faye waved her aside. "Aside" proved to be the adjoining office — which happened to be Johnny Smith's. Faye speedily forgot Noah Vale. Dolly Faye was, happily, without complexes. That is to say, she was not conscicus of them. Therefore, she did not ponder whether or not her interest in Noah Vale sprang from purely philanthropic sources or from a more personal reaction — the desire to be with Johnny Smith. For, " I'm going to look Noah Vale up tomorrow," she told Johnny; "he probably lives — poor dear— in some frightful place. I'd — feel safer — if you would come along — " Johnny Smith came along — but not in the capacity of the great Mr. Faye's secretary. Inopportunely, the evening before, he had set forth his desire to be the great Mr. Faye's son-in-law and had been contemptuously dismissed by that gentleman in any capacity whatsoever. But there was something of Noah Vale in Johnny Smith. Something, he knew not what, sustained him. Not words. He was unawar' of words. But a persistent and not to be suppressed something kept singing in his blood and would not be gainsaid. He told Dolly, somewhat dismayed at the sudden change in her father's office and her own scheme of aays entire, that he would still be rich and famous. It would probably be through the exploitation of someone or something else, but it would be his own insight, foresight and resourcefulness none the less. Neither of them suspected — but I anticipate. At any rate, he might as well have been saying abracadabra for aH of Dolly. The sun glinted on his hair and his mouth quirked at the corners and there came from him as he swung along by her side a compelling aroma of fresh air and masculine cigarette smoke. What did it matter what he said . . . ? They found the Vale menage to be something more than they had bargained for. Instinctively they felt, both of them, that in this room humor was most delicately blent with tragedy, and pride with poverty. Dolly felt her purse to be an insult and her father's reputation a stigma. The facts of the room were obviously humorous. Noah Vale, looking puzzled and awkward, was struggling with what appeared to be a huge rent in a Aery small pair of trousers. In fact the trousers might be described as mostly rip. In an extreme corner of the room, in a barrel, was a small boy. His face and shoulders accosted the eye, with a mixture of bravado and shame. A girl, a year larger, was leaning out of the window, or the frame where a window should have been. There were one or two chairs. Dolly, fearful lest she be an intruder, began to talk at once, ■She said that her father had had Mr. Vale's letter; that he had been unable to come himself and that she had acted in his stead. That he would be most pleased to see Mr. Vale at his home in the morning and in the meantime if there was anything immediate she could do. Clumsily, she felt it at once, her fingers felt for her purse. Noah Vale thanked her. His voice creaked a little with the unaccustomed stirring of his hopes. There was nothing immediate, he said. Patch had ceased hanging from the window frame and was regarding Dolly. She had never seen anything quite like Dolly. What did Dolly remind her of? What did Dolly, so to speak, represent? Patch racked her brain. Suddenly — of course! Dolly represented — Dolly was a fairy godmother. The fairy godmother of Uncle Noah's "eating" stories. Dainty . . . perfumed . . . gracious. Yes! YES! Patch followed up her train of thought. Well, and then, what did fairy godmothers do? What did they always do? And what, just now, had this one said? She had said "if there was anything ime'jit she could do!" Do! Magic word. Forget the invention, my dear man," said Johnny Smith, "you're a philosopher!'