After propping her up on pillows and seeing that she was bodily comfortable at least, Miss Watts withdrew. Isabelle began at the beginning and read every word about that unhappy opening. The articles were written with a jocularity hard to bear. Most of them had graduated out of the regular dramatic review columns on to the first page. “Hilarious Opening at the New York Theatre!” “Cartel’s Find!” “Impromptu Artist Makes Bow.” These were some of the captions.
They all developed the story for what it was worth: Cartel’s discovery of Isabelle at the inn; a few paragraphs about her family; mention of the wonderful publicity provided for her; a description of the brilliant first-night audience, with the Bryces’ distinguished guests in all the boxes; Isabelle’s reception as the maid. Then followed the plot of the play, up to the awful moment when Cartel’s “discovery” forgot her lines and began to improvise. They painted the star’s astonishment and subsequent fury. They added speculation as to the real climax of the evening which must have taken place back on the stage after the dropping of the final curtain. Every article made you hear the uncontrollable laughter of the audience.
Isabelle agonized over each one. She raged at the opinion of one dramatic critic who said that no doubt Cartel would release Miss Bryce on the morrow, but that a dozen managers would step forward to capture a young woman of such marked personality, and such a talent for publicity.
Max was right; they were all ruined. She had made the whole family ridiculous. She wasn’t surprised that Max hated her for it. She deserved anything from them now. She lay in bed for several days, scarcely touching food, brooding upon her disgrace until she was really ill.
Wally hovered about her, deeply concerned, but not knowing how to comfort her. He kept Max out of the room as much as he could. Finally he sent for a doctor.
“Perfectly unnecessary,” said his wife. “She isn’t sick. She’s made a fool of herself and lost the middle of the stage, so now she goes on a hunger strike to work up a little sympathy.”
“The kid is suffering, I tell you. She is all broken up over this. I think we ought to take her away somewhere.”
“You can count me out. I’ve been dragged home to open this house for her convenience. I’m not going off to some empty resort place because she needs a change.”