“Come in,” invited the girl from within the little room. “Oh, you’re Miss—let me see—I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name—you’re from the Leader, aren’t you?”
“No,” replied Dorothy, breathing easier, now that she found herself alone with a girl—a simple human being just like any other girl. “I am looking for—for a friend,” she went on, stammeringly, “and I thought perhaps you could tell me—”
“You poor child,” interrupted Miss Riceman whose toilet was so unceremoniously interrupted “just come in and sit down on this trunk. Then let me get you something. You actually look ill.”
“I’m just—just a little fri—frightened,” Dorothy gasped, for indeed she was now feeling queer and dizzy, and it was all getting black before her eyes.
“Nettie!” called the actress, “get me some cold water and call to the girls in the ‘Lair’ and see if they have made coffee. Hurry now,” to the woman who helped the actresses dress. Then she offered Dorothy a bottle of smelling salts. “Take a whiff of that,” she said kindly. “The woman will be back soon with some ice water. I’m sorry you’re not well. Was it the smell from the gas lights? I don’t see why they make us poor actresses put up with them, when they have electric light in front. It’s abominable! And the smoke from the powder they use to make the lightning! It fairly chokes me,” and she blew aside a curling wreath of vapor that sifted in through the door. A moment later the woman handed in a pitcher of water and a glass. “No coffee?” in answer to some message. “Well, all right.”
The actress flew over to a box that served as a dresser and poured out a glass of water for Dorothy. As she did so Dorothy had a chance to look at Katherine, whom she imagined might be Tavia. There was not the slightest resemblance now that the actress had her “make-up” off. How could a little paint, powder and the glare from the footlights perform such a miracle, thought Dorothy. This girl was as different from Tavia as Dorothy was herself. And yet she did look so like her—
“Here’s a nice drink of water,” spoke Miss Riceman.
“Now please don’t let me bother you so,” pleaded Dorothy, sitting up determinedly and trying to look as if nothing was the matter. But she sipped the water gladly. “I’m quite well now, thank you, Miss Riceman, and I’ll not detain you a moment longer from your dressing.”
“Nonsense, child, sit still. You won’t bother me the least bit. I’ll go right on. Now tell me who it is you’re looking for?”
Dorothy watched the actress toss aside a mass of brown hair that was so like Tavia’s. Then she saw a string pulled and—the wig came off. The real, naturally blond hair of Miss Riceman fell in a shower over her shoulders.