Pauline laughed. “You sound like your brother Horace. Does he know about Peter, Judy? It isn’t going to be in the newspapers, is it?”
“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. I telephoned home right after breakfast. Horace will put something in after he checks with the authorities. Publicity could be dangerous. That’s what I told him. There’s nothing about Peter in the New York papers. I did find this, though.”
Judy pointed to a review of Sleeping Beauty. A columnist, known for his sarcasm, had called the play a triumph of youth over experience.
“As for the star, if that was Francine Dow, she has certainly discovered the fountain of youth. She has lost her voice and gained the fragile beauty of a china doll. This reviewer couldn’t believe his eyes.”
“There are others like it,” Pauline spoke up as Judy paused in her reading. “Here, I’ll show you. This paper calls her a changeling.”
“No?” Judy stared at the paper. “That’s what Clarissa called herself. I don’t get it at all. She was right beside us—”
“Was she?”
“I don’t know. I certainly thought she was. Here’s Flo. Maybe she can explain it,” Judy finished as the doorbell rang.
