Jane Goring looked down at her. “I take it you have friends in the gallery?” she said.
“No, I have no friends in New York.”
Goring continued to gaze down and her look was not altogether pleasant. But the girl did not see it. With an impulsive gesture, half apologetic, half worshipful, she lifted the star’s hand to her lips.
“God bless you!” she murmured with that queer catch in her voice.
[102]
]CHAPTER IV
At 5.00 A. M. ’Dolph Cleeburg was seated in the living-room-library den of his apartment completely surrounded by early editions and the butts of cigars. One of the latter circled joyously in his mouth as he and the author read over the various expressions of approval.
“Here’s a fellow says Jane’s hair was too Fifth Avenue in the first act. By godfrey, ain’t that just like ’em? Can’t find fault with anything else, so have to pick on her hair.”
“I told her to let it go,” the playwright remarked.
“Well, that’s Jane. She’s got to look right or she can’t act. And, by gad, I’ve seen lots of Third Avenue girls got up like Fifth. Ain’t any law against it, is there?” He let the sheet rustle to the floor and picked up another. His collar and tie were open, his coat was off, his eyes held a blaze of excitement. A whiskey and soda stood on the tabouret beside him, untouched.
“Listen to this, Ted!” He plunged into a eulogy that made his eyes snap and the cigar roll with a velocity impossible to estimate. “By godfrey,” came at the finish, “ain’t one of ’em don’t give some notice to that Cromwell kid”—and went on reading—“‘Managers—keep your eye on Miss Gloria Cromwell.’” Then he gave a long chuckle. “And to think I engaged her because she looked starved!”