“If I take y’ just once?” Sophie held up a finger.
Phœbe had won. She threw her arms about Sophie, almost smothering her. “Darling Sophie! Oh, Sophie, you’re a girl, and you understand!—Oh, Sophie, who’s the star I’ll see tonight?”
Sophie half turned away. She raised ecstatic eyes to the neighborhood of Uncle John’s Map of Palestine. She sighed. “William S. Hart,” she half whispered.
“William S. Hart,” repeated Phœbe. She echoed the sigh.
“Oh, he’s grand!” breathed Sophie.
Phœbe touched Sophie with an anxious hand. “What girl is playing with him now?” she asked jealously.
“I don’t remember. But”—enviously—“she’s awful pretty.”
“Does he—like her?” went on Phœbe.
“Oh, he’s crazy about her!”
“Mm!” Phœbe considered the toe of a shoe. Now and again, in the case of this particular star, she had dreamed dreams. She had looked forward to a time when her hair would be up and her dresses longer; then, if her plans worked out satisfactorily, might she not be a moving-picture actress, and play with her favorite hero?