The Celebrity by Laura Z. Hobson

commission?”
    “Cindy!”
    “I only thought that with a movie—”
    “You don’t take commissions from your own brother.” He rinsed the razor vigorously under the tap.
    “Don’t be so superior,” Cindy said. Then, placatingly, “I’m sorry, Thorn. You did say you’d be giving lots of time to things now, and it just seemed perfectly ordinary business, even on the book-club money—”
    “It’s not.”
    She left and he was suddenly impatient to get to the office, refresh himself on other points in the contracts, and get going. Women were grasping creatures, at times nearly immoral; Cindy probably would have thought it only fair if he had deducted an agent’s commission of a hundred and ten dollars from the eleven hundred that Gregory’s last book had earned him for two years of work! Well, he had never made money on his own brother and he never would, no matter what it came to. Ten per cent of fifty-two thousand was—
    He still wouldn’t.
    There is, as everybody knows, a large satisfaction in the public renunciation of profit to which one has neither a legal nor moral right; that satisfaction now flooded Thornton’s heart. In this splendid mood, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror and suddenly felt sheepish. He finished dressing quickly, went to the dining room, and said, “Skip it, sweetie, I was being a touch touchy.”
    “For a change?” she said.
    But there was no ill humor in her eyes and when he left for the office, he felt sunny and even-tempered and filled with anticipation once more. By the time Diana came in, he was nearly through with Gregory’s contracts and waiting to make his first call.
    Diana proved him an accurate prophet. “Your own brother, Mr. Johns!” Her eyes were round; her voice was awed. Questions bubbled from her beautiful mouth; he answered them graciously, despite an inevitable preoccupation with the notes he was making on his memo pad all the while she spoke. He told her which calls he would make, and in what order, and when she finally left the office, she went, or so it seemed, on tiptoe. A wave of pleasure laved his heart and when at last he telephoned the Treasurer of Digby and Brown, his tone was very nearly affectionate.
    So was Jack McIntyre’s. Never before had McIntyre evinced such affability. In the past, when Thorn had sought explanations or information, McIntyre had always seemed impatient to answer and have, done, but as they discussed the tax laws which would force Gregory to accept, and pay taxes on, the whole fifty-two thousand in this year instead of permitting a “spread” over several years, McIntyre was leisurely, even loquacious. He seemed to find such talk enjoyable too and it was Thorn this time who had to maneuver the conversation to a close. “I’m expecting a call from Gregory any minute,” he said regretfully.
    “Ed Barnard wired him to be sure to come in,” McIntyre said. “Let me switch you over. Ed will want to hear about his reaction to all this.”
    “Oh, no,” Thorn said hastily. “Gregory ought to talk to him himself, first.” But McIntyre was already jiggling the hook and saying, “Put Mr. Johns through to Ed Barnard, please,” and almost at once Barnard said, “Hello, Mr. Johns, is Gregory with you?”
    “No, but he’ll be in to see you later on.”
    “How did he take the news?”
    “Well, you know Gregory.”
    “Was he calm or excited or what?”
    “I’ll let him tell you himself.”
    “But are you sure he’ll be in? I wired him at seven-thirty this morning and haven’t even had a call so far.”
    “At seven-thirty?”
    Barnard laughed. “Luther Digby started routing all of us out of bed at six, which was five in Chicago—” He laughed again. “You really think Gregory will come in?”
    “I made him promise he would. He tried to call you last night as soon as he got the telegram. He was at my house when he heard about all this.” A strange elation twanged Thornton Johns’ nerves: he was in the