At this juncture, the hall door swung wide, and Tottie appeared, head
high with suppressed excitement, and face alive with curiosity.
"Here's another caller, Miss Crosby," she announced. At her back was
Sue.
Clare retreated, frowning.
Sue, breathless from hurrying, and embarrassed, halted, panting and smiling, in the doorway. "Oh, dear! This dress never was meant for anything faster than a wedding-march!"—this with that characteristic look—the look of a child discovered in naughtiness, and entreating forgiveness.
"Say, ain't you pop'lar!" broke in Tottie, shaking her head at Clare in playful envy. And to Sue, "Y' know, all my theatrical friends 're just crazy about her. They'll hate to see her go."
"Go?" repeated Sue, sobering.
"Tottie!" cried Clare, angrily. "Please! Never mind!" Peremptorily she pointed her to leave.
Tottie, having accomplished her purpose, grinned a good-natured assent. "All right, dearie,"—once more she was playing the fine lady, for the edification of this new arrival so well worth impressing. "I call this my rehearsal room," she informed, with a polite titter. "Pretty idea, ain't it? Well,"—with a sweeping bow all around—"make yourselves to home." She went out, one jeweled hand raised ostentatiously to her back hair.
There was a moment's pause; then Sue held out an impulsive hand to the younger woman. "Oh, you're not going to leave without seeing him," she implored.
"Who do you mean?"—sullenly.
"Alan Farvel."