Ruth, to show she approved, told Grace that Monty--the writer--was her fiancé's chum and African hunting-companion. Monty himself told Miss Goodchild that there was a good story in the whole affair. In fact, two stories. In both of them the heroine--he looked at her and nodded his head convincingly. "Drawn from life," he added. "Of course I'll have to know you--I mean, the heroine--better. But don't you think she'd make a great one?"
She wasn't thrilled a bit. She was not even politely interested. What was such talk, Grace impartially asked herself, to one who had been madly cheered by thousands?
Still, he was a nice boy, not so consciously clever as New-Yorkers who chose to regard themselves as vaudeville wits.
Finally they got into the waiting motor and went to the Fairview-Hartford, where the eating is better than in any New York hotel.
As they were about to enter the dining-room Grace Goodchild put on her restaurant look of utter unconsciousness and stone deafness and blindness, which had grown into a habit since she became famous.
She entered the dining-room ahead of the others, as usual. She took nine steps before she stopped short. Her face went pale.
Nobody had stage-whispered, "There she is!"
No woman had said, "Do you think she is as beautiful as the newspapers try to make out?"
Not one imbecile male look; not one feminine sneer! Nothing! No fame!
"What's the matter?" asked Monty in alarm.
Grace felt an overwhelming desire to stand there until the people looked, even if it took a year.
As the century-long seconds passed she barely could resist the impulse to shout, "Fire!"
"Anything wrong?" whispered Monty, with real concern.
"N-no-nothing!" she stammered, and followed Ruth, who had passed her, unnoticing.
Her color returned as wrath dispelled amazement.
For the first time since H. R. began to woo her in public places with sandwiches Grace Goodchild actually had to eat food in a restaurant. In New York famous people don't go to restaurants to eat.
She was distraite throughout the luncheon. She thought Monty was an ass.
And the other feeding beasts must have read the New York papers! There was absolutely no excuse.
In the evening the same thing happened. That is, nothing happened. The Fiddles' friends tried to be particularly nice to her by talking of the opera, novels, the dancing-craze, the resurgence of the Republican party, and cubism. It only made it worse. And not one knew the Rutgers Roll!