“I'm through!” announced Miss Hobson. It appeared that Sally's presence had in some mysterious fashion fulfilled the function of the last straw. “This is the by-Goddest show I was ever in! I can stand for a whole lot, but when it comes to the assistant stage manager being allowed to fill the theatre with his sisters and his cousins and his aunts it's time to quit.”
“But, sweetie!” pleaded Mr. Cracknell, coming to the surface.
“Oh, go and choke yourself!” said Miss Hobson, crisply. And, swinging round like a blue panther, she strode off. A door banged, and the sound of it seemed to restore Mr. Cracknell's power of movement. He, too, shot up stage and disappeared.
“Hello, Sally,” said Elsa Doland, looking up from her magazine. The battle, raging all round her, had failed to disturb her detachment. “When did you get back?”
Sally trotted up the steps which had been propped against the stage to form a bridge over the orchestra pit.
“Hello, Elsa.”
The late debaters had split into groups. Mr. Bunbury and Gerald were pacing up and down the central aisle, talking earnestly. Fillmore had subsided into a chair.
“Do you know Gladys Winch?” asked Elsa.
Sally shook hands with the placid lodestar of her brother's affections. Miss Winch, on closer inspection, proved to have deep grey eyes and freckles. Sally's liking for her increased.
“Thank you for saving Fillmore from the wolves,” she said. “They would have torn him in pieces but for you.”