It was the night of the first performance of Baggot’s play, “The Break of Day,” in Thornburg’s theatre, and the Barons were all present—by special and urgent invitation.
Baron had been studying the aisles full of people, eagerly seeking their seats, and listening to the continuous murmur which arose all over the house. But when he heard his name called he arose and slipped out into the shadows.
“Mr. Thornburg sends his compliments and asks if you’ll be good enough to visit him in his office for a few minutes.” Thus the cherubic usher.
The Barrymore office was off from the lobby, but it commanded a view not only of the street but also of the procession of men and women who passed the ticket-office.
Thornburg had left the door open, and Baron, approaching, caught sight first of a considerable expanse of dazzling white shirt-front and then of the manager’s ruddy, smiling countenance. Evidences of prosperity were all about. A procession of motor-cars continued to stop before the theatre to deposit passengers. Throughout the lobby there was the shimmer of costly fabrics worn by women, the flashing of jewels, the rising and falling of gusts of laughter and a chaos of happy speech. And everywhere there was the glitter of onyx panels and pillars, and the warmth of hooded lights, and the indefinable odor of fine raiment and many delicate perfumes.
Thornburg seized Baron’s hand and shoved the door to with his foot. Happiness radiated from him. “I’ve a secret to tell you,” he began. “I want you to be one of the first to know.”
“Let’s have it!” responded Baron, trying to reflect a little of the manager’s gayety.
“You’ll remember my telling you that I had a little daughter by my first wife?”
“I remember.”
“I’ve found her again!”