“Put in a word for me, Nina,” Wallie begged. “I intend to ask Elizabeth to go to the theater this week, and I think she is going to refuse.”
“What's the play?” Nina inquired negligently. She was privately determining that her mother needed a tea cart and a new tea service. There were some in old Georgian silver—
“'The Valley.' Not that the play matters. It's Beverly Carlysle.”
“I thought she was dead, or something.”
“Or something is right. She retired years ago, at the top of her success. She was a howling beauty, I'm told. I never saw her. There was some queer story. I've forgotten it. I was a kid then. How about it, Elizabeth?”
“I'm sorry. I'm going Wednesday night.”
He looked downcast over that, and he was curious, too. But he made no comment save:
“Well, better luck next time.”
“Just imagine,” said Nina. “She's going with Dick Livingstone. Can you imagine it?”
But Wallace Sayre could and did. He had rather a stricken moment, too. Of course, there might be nothing to it; but on the other hand, there very well might. And Livingstone was the sort to attract the feminine woman; he had gravity and responsibility. He was older too, and that flattered a girl.