It must have been almost nine o'clock when Lizzie, entering from the maid's room, drew the curtains and flooded the white and gold parlor with rich, warm sun-light. The curtains of the bedroom were still drawn, but evidently Martha was wide awake, for a voice called from the inner room.
"Is that you, Lizzie?"
"Yes, Miss Martha," replied the maid. "It's 'most nine o'clock. Shall I get you the papers?"
Martha, hastily throwing on a pink dressing-gown, entered the parlor. Her eyes were still heavy, and her face was drawn and troubled.
"I've had a wretched night," she said, dropping into a great arm-chair. "I couldn't sleep. After that terrible ordeal—"
"Terrible?" repeated Lizzie, aghast. "Lord, Miss, I heard all the stage hands say the show was great. The actors are the only ones I heard roast it at all."
"I'm afraid I made a terrible mistake," sighed Martha. "I tried to do things too quickly. I was ambitious, but I forgot that the race is not always to the swift. I should have spent years and years in preparation before attempting last night. Of course I was misled by the management, who made me believe I was being promoted because of my ability."
"And wasn't that the truth?" demanded Lizzie.
Martha smiled wanly. "I can't explain now," she said. "I know I never realized until after last night what an absolute failure I had been."
"Oh, don't say that, Miss Martha," protested Lizzie. "Look at the applause you got, and all these flowers."