“Ah, that’s fine!”
“And that isn’t all. You’re going to see her to-night.”
Baron waited.
“She’s the girl they’ve been making all that fuss about in Chicago—who’s been known only as ‘The Sprite.’ She’s got the leading part in ‘The Break of Day.’”
Baron felt his way cautiously. He couldn’t mar such superb complacency, such complete happiness. “And Mrs. Thornburg—” he began haltingly.
“God bless her, it’s all right with her. She knows, and she’s as happy as I am.”
Baron shrunk back with a sense of utter loss. “Thornburg,” he said, “I want you to tell me—is the little girl the daughter of—of Miss Barry?”
The manager clapped a heavy hand on Baron’s shoulder. “No,” he responded. And after a moment’s almost pensive reflection he regained his buoyant manner and resumed. “I’d like you to meet her. Between acts, or after the play. You and your family. She’s young. I think a little attention, especially motherly attention, will mean a lot to her just now. Of course she mustn’t be worried to-night; but suppose we make up a little party, after the performance, and make her feel that she’s got friends here?”
Baron couldn’t think of refusing. “I’d have time to pay my respects, at least,” he agreed. “And I’ll put the case before my mother and the others, just as you have stated it. I think perhaps she’ll consent.”
“That’s a good fellow. I’ll be looking for you,” concluded Thornburg, and then he joyously shoved Baron out of the office.