“Don’t!” was all that she said, and the visitor thought that even that harsh word was like music, so deep and rich was the voice that uttered it.
Bobs was puzzled. She looked up inquiringly: “Don’t what?” she asked.
The white hand rested on Roberta’s knee as the voice continued kindly: “If you were my sister, I would say don’t, don’t take up the stage as a profession. It’s such a weary, thankless life. Only a few of us reach the top, little girl, and it’s such a hard grind. Too, if you want to live right, theatrical folk think you are queer and you don’t win their friendship. They say you’re not their kind.”
“But, you—” Roberta breathed with very evident admiration, “you are a star. You do not need their friendship.” She was thinking of the small florid man who had suggested a top.
The actress smiled, and then hurriedly added in a low voice, for the maid was returning: “I haven’t time to talk more, now, but dear girl, even as a star I say don’t.”
Bobs impulsively caught the frail hand and held it in a close clasp. She wondered why there were tears in the dark-lashed eyes. As she was closing the door after her, she heard the maid address the star as Miss Merryheart.
“Another fictitious name that doesn’t fit,” Bobs thought. How she longed to go back to the little dressing room and ask Miss Merryheart if there was something, anything she could do for her; but instead, with a half sigh, she turned toward an open door beyond which she could hear laughter and joking.
Bobs wondered if among those chorus girls she would find the one she sought.
The door to the larger room was ajar, and Roberta entered. As she had guessed, there was a bevy of girls in the room. A dozen mirrors lined the walls and before each of them stood a young girl applying paint or powder to her face, or adjusting a wig with long golden curls. Some of them were dressed in spangly tights and others in very short skirts that stood out stiffly.
This was unmistakably the chorus.