For the moment, he subordinated his personal problems to his wrath at Henry. He charged Henry with full responsibility for this present crisis; for if Henry had simply scribbled his signature, Mr. Mix would have made a good deal of money. It never occurred to him that in the same transaction, Henry would have changed places with Mr. Mix. That was Henry's look-out. And damn him, he had _looked_!
"I'm going to get him for that," said Mr. Mix, half-aloud. "I'm going to get him, and get him good. Jockeying me into a pocket! Conceited young ass! And I'd have been square with the world, and paid off that infernal note, and had _four ... thousand ... dollars_ left over." His lips made a straight line. "And he'd have brought fifty thousand dollars' worth of business into this office--he'd have _had_ to--he'd have had to hold up his friends--to protect his ante. Yes, sir, I'm going to get him _good_."
Mr. Mix sat up, and emitted a short, mirthless laugh. He frowned thoughtfully: and then, after a little search, he examined the pamphlet which Mirabelle had given him, and skimmed through the pages until he came to the paragraph he had in mind. Enforcement of the Sunday ordinances ... hm!... present ordinance seems to prohibit Sunday theatrical performances of all kinds, but city administrations have always been lax. Want the law on the books, don't dare to repeal it, but don't care to enforce it.
Mr. Mix sat back and pondered. He knew enough about the motion-picture business to realize that the Sunday performances made up the backbone of the week. He knew enough about the Orpheum to know that Henry's quota, which under normal conditions would require only diligence, and initiative, and originality to reach, would be literally impossible if Sundays were taken from the schedule. The League's blue-law campaign, if it proved successful, would make Henry Devereux even bluer than Mr. Mix. "Three rousing cheers for reform!" said Mr. Mix, and grinned at the pamphlet.
Another brilliant thought infected him. He had long since passed the stage in which women were a mystery to him: he had long since realized that unless a man's passions intervene, there is nothing more mysterious about women than about men. It was all humbug--all this mummery about intuitions and unerring perception and inscrutability. Women are all alike--all human--all susceptible to sheer, blatant flattery. The only difference in women is in the particular brand of flattery to which, as individuals, they react.