“When do you go to the theatre?”
“Seven.”
“Come along, Wally, she ought to rest. For all our sakes, Isabelle, keep your head and don’t make a fool of yourself.”
“Much obliged,” said Isabelle. “I take it you are wishing me luck.”
Wally kissed her cheek, and they went out.
“Poor dears,” mused Isabelle, “it will be hard for them to accommodate themselves to my importance.”
Then she gave herself up to dreams of triumph until it was time to go. There was excitement in the air at the theatre. Voices were high, and eyes were bright. She was greeted loudly from open doors, as she went to her dressing room. Since the papers had boomed her, her position in the company had changed. Every one was dressed early and little knots of people discussed the big house, the critics, the chances of success for the play. It was a “strong” play, and, so far, the season had offered only trifles. It was too soon to know yet what the public appetite craved.
“You got to change its meat. When it’s fed up on crooks, ye got to give it sex; when it turns against that, ye got to try comedy. My opinion is, this is a comedy season,” said the gentleman who played the butler—a part even more inconspicuous than Isabelle’s. They all inquired the state of her pulse, and marvelled at her calm.
“She’ll be a hit, or she’ll be rotten,” was the butler gentleman’s comment.
“She can’t do much in that maid’s part.”