Unaware that she had become the victim of a needful strategy, Rowena was serenely deriving huge enjoyment from the brutally frank criticisms she was lavishing right and left among the unoffending choirsters. It was a supreme happiness to her to see her carefully delivered shots strike home. But her ambition to wound lay not entirely with the chorus. She was yearning for a chance to nettle Constance Stevens, whom she hated by reason of the impassable gulf that lay between Constance and herself. Never, since she had come to Sanford, had Constance appeared even to know that she existed. This galled Rowena beyond expression. As a leader among the high school girls she had deemed Constance worth cultivating. She might as readily have tried to bring down the North Star as to ingratiate herself with this calm, lovely girl, and she knew it. Here was something which she could not obtain. Failing, she marked her as a victim for ridicule and scorn.
The first act over at last, Rowena posted herself in Mignon’s dressing room and proceeded to regale the latter with a derisive, laughing account of her fruitful wanderings among the cast. Mignon listened to her with indifference. As she opened the second act, her mind was on her rôle. She was hardly aware that her tormentor had left the dressing room until she became conscious that the high-pitched tones had suddenly ceased.
Mignon proving altogether too non-committal to suit her difficult fancy, Rowena had fared forth in search of fresh adventure. The star dressing room, occupied by Constance, lay two doors farther down the corridor. In passing and repassing it that evening, Rowena had vainly ransacked her guileful brain for an excuse to invade it. Now as she left Mignon’s dressing room she decided to put on an intrepid front and pay Constance a call. Her large, black eyes danced with pure malice as she doubled a fist and pounded upon the closed door.
“Who is there?” came from within. The vigorous tattoo had startled Constance.
For answer Rowena simply swung open the door and stepped into the room. “I thought I’d pay you a call,” she announced with cool complacence.
Seated before a low make-up shelf on which reposed a mirror, Constance was engaged in readjusting her coiffure, which had become slightly loosened during the first act. Her blue eyes showed wondering surprise as she turned in her chair to face the intruder. From Jerry she had already heard angry protests against this mischievous girl. Quiet Constance now read fresh mischief in the intrusion. She resolved to treat her uninvited guest civilly. If possible she would try to keep her in the dressing room until the second act was called. Better that than allow her to further annoy the other girls. As she had no change of costume to make she was free to entertain her unbidden visitor.
“Sit down,” she evenly invited, neither cordial nor cold. “How do you like the operetta?”
Rather taken aback by this placid reception, Rowena dropped gracefully into a chair, her dark eyes fixed speculatively on her hostess. Shrugging her shoulders she gave a contemptuous little laugh as she answered: “Oh, these amateur productions are all alike. Some, of course, are more stupid than others.”
“Do you include the poor Princess among the more stupid?” asked Constance, smiling in spite of herself at this patent attempt to be disagreeable.
“I don’t include it in anything. I don’t even know what it’s all about. I only came to rehearsals and here to amuse myself. Sanford is the deadest town I was ever in and Sanford High School is a regular kindergarten. I suppose you know who I am, don’t you?” Rowena crested her auburn head a trifle.