MISS RICEMAN’S HAIR FELL IN A SHOWER OVER HER SHOULDERS
Turning to Dorothy the performer instantly realized that the scene was new to her visitor and, with that strange, subtle instinct which seems to characterize the artistic professional woman, she at once relieved the situation by remarking:
“Do you know we never feel like removing our ‘make-up’ before the reporters. Even women representatives of the press (and of course we never admit any others to our dressing rooms) have such a funny way of describing things that I should be mortally afraid of taking off my wig before one. I thought you were Miss—Oh, what’s her name—I never can think of it—from the Leader. I expected her to call. But, do you know that women reporters are just the dearest set of rascals in the world? They simply can’t help being funny when it’s a joke on you. Now, whom did you say you were looking for? I do rattle on so!”
All this, of course, was giving Dorothy time—and she needed it badly, for her story was by no means ready for a “dress rehearsal.”
But there was something so self-assuring about the actress—she was not in the least coarse or loud-spoken—she was, on the contrary, the very embodiment of politeness. Dorothy felt she could talk freely with her about Tavia.
“I am looking for a young girl named Octavia Travers,” began Dorothy bravely, “and I thought possibly she might be with this company.”
“Was she with this company previously? I don’t seem to recall the name.”
“Oh, I don’t know that she is with any company,” Dorothy hastened to add, feeling how foolish it must seem to be looking for a girl in a theatrical troupe when one had no more assurance that she might be with such a company than that she might be working in a department store.
“Haven’t you her address?” asked Miss Riceman, as she stood before the glass, daubing on some cold cream to remove the last of the “make-up” from her face.