So far as the stage was concerned, that bright bubble had burst, and instead of haunting the offices of managers, The Girl took to breakfasting at 10, lunching at 2 and dining at 8. The theatres to her were merely places of amusement—good to fill in time which could be used in no other way, and her ambition to shine as a footlight favorite went when she found that she could live without being annoyed by any of the responsibilities of life. She gradually grew to know that the name of The Man was a very familiar one in the big cities and at times the newspapers printed his picture. She had assumed that name—it was in the compact, although there were few who knew it. Several times, when he called on her, he brought some of his friends to dinner, but these occasions were not frequent, by any means, and she knew she wasn’t a part of his intimate life.
Now see how time makes puppets of both men and women, for this story has one merit in that it is true.
The Man took sick in Chicago, and the first she knew of it was when she read it in the newspapers. Every stage of his disease was chronicled until he died, and when she read that the paper dropped from her hands and she felt again that weakness of the knees which took her on that first morning in New York. For four days she lived in a dream, vaguely wondering what was to become of her, and then a brisk, alert, dapper little man—a lawyer—called. There was nothing sentimental about him. He was business from the drop of the hat.
“I represent the family of The Man,” he announced, abruptly. “There is a codicil in his will which bequeaths you $250,000. Of course, we can break that and not half try, but the widow and children don’t want any unpleasant notoriety, and they are willing to settle for $50,000, which I can pay to you at once. You will accept, if you are wise, for $50,000 is a nice little sum and it will leave you free and clear to do as you please and will dispose of a very unpleasant situation.”
The death of The Man had given her a shock from which she hadn’t yet recovered, and she asked for time to think.
“Come to-morrow or the day after,” she said, “and I will talk to you. I can’t think now.”
He wanted to finish it up at once, but every time she gave him the same answer, so there was nothing for him to do but to go.
And then that night there came another lawyer, one whom she had known because The Man had brought him on one of his visits. His argument was different:
“There is $250,000 coming to you; get it. It is a clean-cut, legal will and they can’t break it, besides there is enough there for everybody and to spare. Let me manage it for you and don’t worry. If they want to contest let them go ahead and I’ll beat them.”
And because he said “Don’t worry; leave it all to me,” she consented. That was the woman of it.