She ate no dinner, just swallowed a mouthful of tea and drove downtown. Little ’Dolph came to her dressing-room a few minutes later. He was jubilant. They were sold out weeks ahead. The play had hit the jaded metropolis in the eye—to quote him, with variations. It was good for another three seasons’ run. He rambled on at random, eyes popping, infectious smile lighting his round face like the smile of the sun at high noon. Presently he stopped, shifted his cigar and stared at her.
[105]
] “What’s the matter with you, Jane?”
She looked down questioningly.
“Ain’t said a word,” he continued. “What’s got you?”
“Nothing. I’m tired, I dare say.”
“Sure! Morning-after stuff! Don’t let down, though. We don’t want ’em saying second night’s off—the way it always is.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.” Indignation was in her voice.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” he apologized quickly. “And, Jane—”
“Yes?”
“Might let your hair go a bit in that first act—what?”