With his prophecy singing in her ears, Nancy made her bow to New York as a star. The audience was with her from the first, sharing her joy, her triumph, eyes shining with hers, tears flowing when hers did. She took it all modestly enough, even dragging on the leading man to take the curtains with her. When finally they brought her out alone, she stood a bit left-center and one could plainly see her whole body shake, her lips tremble like some unaccustomed schoolgirl’s.
It was at this moment that a man with towering shoulders and the stride of authority left his seat and made for the lobby. There he cornered Coghlan and without preamble made his point.
“Jerry,” he said as they shook hands, “present me to Miss Bradshaw, will you?”
“Sure!” said Jerry proudly.
And thus brought about the climax to the first act of Nancy’s life drama.
Cunningham wanted to give a supper party that night. But she told him friends were entertaining her and Thorne at one of those crowded and supposedly exclusive [295] ]restaurants known as “Clubs.” He calmly followed them and with two other men managed to procure a table near theirs. Cunningham could procure anything anywhere.
Nancy saw him instantly and wished he hadn’t come. Not that he gave any sign of deliberate interest in her. In fact, one would have said he did not know she was there. His eyes—non-committal, steel-colored eyes they were, the sort that read without permitting themselves to be read—scanned the menu. Supper ordered, he turned their full attention to his companions. But his presence made Nancy self-conscious. Probably, she concluded, because of what Ted Thorne had told her!
As they recognized her, men sauntered from various parts of the room, white mustache to beardless youth, clamoring congratulations. And beside that sweet intoxication of dreams realized, the champagne set frankly before her was as plain water to the fountain of eternal youth. She drank in every word, hearing the same ones repeated many times.
When Thorne managed to break through the circle with her and spin into a one-step, those they passed nudged each other. About the graceful figure in cloudy silver with light hair tumbling over dark eyes and lips curving in laughter, filmed the aura of the theater, fairyland of illusion, the one magic world that makes children of us all.
As they went back to the table, she caught Cunningham watching her with an unlit cigarette between his lips and around them rather a puzzled look, as if he might be asking himself some question he could not answer.