Dan liked the big cordial face of the Scotch-woman who acted as companion, dresser and maid for the star. Mrs. Higgins had an affable face, one that welcomes, and she made it plain that she was not an enemy to this young caller.
The visitor, in his blue serge clothes, was less startling than most of the men that came to see her mistress.
“She works too hard, doesn’t she?”
“She does everything too hard, sir.”
“She ought to rest.”
“I doubt if she does, even in her grave,” returned Higgins. “She is too full of motion. She is like the little girl in the fairy book that danced in her grave.”
Dan didn’t like this comparison.
“Can’t you make her hold up a little?”
Higgins smiled and shook her head.
Letty Lane’s sitting-room was as full of roses as a flower garden. There were quantities of theatrical photographs in silver and leather frames on the tables and the piano. Signed portraits from crowned heads; pictures of well-known worldly men and women whom the dancer had charmed. But a full-length picture of Letty Lane herself in one of the dresses of Mandalay lay on the table near Dan, and he picked it up. She smiled at him enchantingly from the cardboard, across which was written in her big, dashing hand: “For the Boy from my Town. Letty Lane.”