"Then I don't believe it's wrong for you—only for the other boy," she averred.
They turned. Nothing more was said until they reached the parsonage.
"Much obliged, Miss Moss," the boy said quietly. "And that's good to remember—not getting anything out of it for yourself. Good night."
She heard him whistling cheerily as he went on his way. But her own heart was heavy. Not to get anything out of it for oneself! Oh, what would Dick Clinton think, what would every one think, to know that she wasn't Elsie Moss at all! He had been sadly troubled because he had played the part of another one night—a silent part that required no spoken words. What would he think to learn that she was an interloper at the parsonage? It was in part, it is true, for the sake of another. But it was also in part—in large part, now—for her own sake.
CHAPTER XXVIII
One evening in the early spring, during the interval between the films in a motion-picture theatre on lower Broadway, a thrill of excitement went through the audience, which was of the sort that desires to live on thrills.
Perhaps to-night, however, there was reasonable excuse for genuine anticipation. For the song-dance specialty that was about to take place was of a different order from anything that had been known in that theatre heretofore. There was real grace and beauty in the dancing, genuine melody in the voice of the singer, and something sweet and wholesome about the whole performance.
The act was entitled "And Do You Ken Elsie Marley, Honey?" And one whispered to another that the best of it was, that that was her real name—honestly it was—at least it had always been her stage name, so that probably the song had been written especially for her—and she that young—and it wasn't real ragtime either. And her dimples were real too; possibly they were enlarged and deepened by the make-up, but she had them off the stage.
Heavy applause greeted the entrance of the actress.