Max.
“Is anything wrong, dear Max?” inquired her best beau, noting her expression.
“Yes,” she replied, “but it’s chronic in our family!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Isabelle went directly to their town house and demanded a bed of the caretaker, who was an old family servant. At ten in the morning she presented herself at the stage door of the New York Theatre, and sent in a card to Mr. Cartel. Word came out that he had not arrived. She was not permitted to go in, and to her great indignation she had to march up and down the alley for an hour until the great one came.
At sight of him she felt that all her troubles were at an end. She hurried forward with a confident smile, as he stepped from his motor. No gleam of delight at the sight of her overspread his features, however. He saw her; he bowed.
“Ah—I got your message,” he said, absently. “I don’t think that there is anything for you.”