“How Tavia would enjoy this.” She looked around on the gay scene as the theatre was filling up. “What a pity we could not bring her with us for the good time.”
Dorothy felt her face flush as Nat made some irrelevant reply. Jack turned directly to Dorothy and, noting her inattention to the programme opened his to point out some of the items of interest.
But still Dorothy stared nervously at the big asbestos curtain and made feeble efforts to answer her companion’s questions. Even Mrs. Markin observed Dorothy’s rather queer manner, and she, too, showed concern that her daughter’s guest should be ill at ease.
“Aren’t you well, dear?” she asked quietly.
Dorothy fumbled with a lace flounce on her sleeve.
“Yes,” she answered, “but there is so much to see and think about.” She felt as if she were apologizing. “I am not accustomed to city theatres,” she added.
Then the orchestra broke into the opening number, and presently a flash of light across the curtain told that the players were ready to begin.
The introductory scenes were rather of an amateur order—a poor country home—the blind chair caner at work, and his more or less amusing customers. One flashily-dressed woman wanted him to put a rush bottom in a chair that had belonged to her grandmother, but absolutely refused to pay even the very low price the caner asked for the work. She wanted it as cheaply as though rush bottoms could be made by machinery. He was poor and needed work but he could not accept her terms.
The woman in a red silk gown, with a bewildering shower of veils floating about her, did not gain any applause for her part in the play. Dorothy noted that even on the stage undesirable persons do not please, and that the assumed character is taken into account as well as their acting.
It was when the blind man sat alone at his door step, with his sightless eyes raised pitifully to the inviting sunset, that the pretty Katherine came skipping into view across the footlights.