To all of these questions Miss Lindsay only shook her head. She was a frail, delicate girl, whom the others had nicknamed “The Feather.”
Marion saw at once that the girl did not wish her sympathy, so she said nothing more, but went over by the door to wait where she could hear the call to the wings.
Miss Lindsay hurried into her stage costume as quickly as possible, but she took very little pains with it.
“What is the use of trying to look pretty?” she said finally. “No one cares how I look, so I’m not going to bother.”
“Oh, I am sure somebody cares,” said Marion, quickly, “and really, Miss Lindsay, you should put on more rouge. You are awfully pale. I am afraid the calcium will make you look ghastly.”
“I don’t care if it does,” said the girl indifferently, but she did smear a little of the red stuff across her cheeks and eyelids.
There was another call and the chorus came rushing from the stairs—in less than a moment the overture would be ended.
Marion did not have to go on for some little time, but she followed slowly down the stairs, in order to stand in the wings, as she always enjoyed listening to the chorus.
Just as she reached the stairs she observed one of the chorus girls waiting for her. As she peered through the dim light she saw that it was Miss Lindsay.