“There’s got to be something for me,” said Isabelle with promptness and vigour. “You let me desert my family for a career, and you’ve got to help me.”
“But, my dear girl, I urged you not to break with your family, you know.”
“It’s too late to talk about that. Here I am. Now, what are you going to do about it?”
“Well, come in,” he said, curtly; and they went into the theatre.
It was Isabelle’s first view of the hindside of the mysteries. It was a hot day, and rehearsal was in progress. A group of people sat listlessly about the stage, on kitchen chairs, while a man in a négligé shirt and no coat urged them to get a little “pep” into the scene “for the love of God!” Cartel’s arrival caused a ripple. All the actors sat up, as if electrified. The stage manager advanced at once to speak with him. He glanced at Isabelle, but Cartel made no move to introduce them. In fact he seemed to have forgotten about her. He issued brief orders, asked a few questions, turned to go. Then, as if on an afterthought, he added:
“By the way, Jenkins, this is Miss Isabelle Bryce. Try her out in the maid’s part, will you?”
Mr. Jenkins nodded to Isabelle, who was furious at her hero for this casual treatment of her career.
“Come over here,” ordered Jenkins, indicating a chair and offering her a script. “Read ‘Mary,’” he added, briefly, and went on with the rehearsal.
Isabelle was dazed. It was so different from her idea of it. She had supposed Cartel would introduce her to the company and the manager as a genius he had discovered this summer. She thought she would be made much of, as his protégée. Instead of which she was set upon a kitchen chair, like a strange kitten, and told to read “Mary.” Nobody paid any attention to her. They did not even look at her. They went on, indifferently, reading their parts, moving here and there on orders from Jenkins. Suddenly her name was rapped out: