It formed a pretty picture, the little tragedienne, standing where the crimson draperies made an effective background for her slender, white-robed figure, with the long strands of rumpled brown hair straying over her shoulder, and her earnest, gray eyes deepening to black or sparkling into blue, her whole face lit with passion.
"You do your part well, Peggy," said the young man.
Alene's blushes of pleasure faded suddenly.
"But it's not my part, it's Ivy's! Why does everyone think when you're rich that's all you are good for or can wish for! This is my part," and she pointed tragically at the detested verse.
"Ah, I see," said Uncle Fred, glancing at the lines. "It's a pretty thing. 'Tis a pity to have it spoiled, as I fear it will be, since you dislike it. "Why not suggest a change?"
"I'm afraid Laura would feel hurt; besides it is more suitable to Ivy as she is a poet!"
"The very reason she may wish for something else!"
"Anyway, she said the verse in a sing-song style that just spoiled it!" declared Alene.
"Poor stage manager! It's almost as bad as being the leader of a choir! Pity Laura's not a mind reader! But why not be perfectly honest with her, and tell her how you feel about it; perhaps Ivy has no preference in the matter."
Alene thought that was out of the question; besides it would be selfish to want Ivy's part, just because she herself preferred it; poor Ivy, who, though so clever, was never quite happy.