Eve sat by herself in the second row of the stalls. Her eyes were glorious with hope. On her lap lay the program of the piece, with Wynne’s name ringing from the page.
The printing was a stupendous piece of self-sufficiency. She had noted, half-fearful, half-amused, the hum of conversation which had gone round the theatre as the audience noted the persistent large-type booming of a single unknown personality.
“This young man is taking responsibilities upon his shoulders,” observed one newspaper critic to another.
The other smiled sardonically. Already he was tasting in anticipation several phrases he proposed to level against Mr. Wynne Rendall.
“But who is he anyway?” seemed to arise from the general buzz of voices.
From where she sat Eve could see the profile of Lane Quiltan. His box seemed very full—a circumstance which made her glad, for Wynne had refused to offer her a seat there. “He won’t want to be bothered with introductions on a first night; besides, there are lots of people who must be invited. I want you to be in the body of the house and feel the pulse of the audience.”
So it came about she was alone with none to talk with, and none to admire the pretty frock she wore.
It had not occurred to Wynne she would want a dress for his first night—she had not expected that it would; but, nevertheless, she was beautifully clad.
The possession of the evening dress and a wrap marked her first deliberate step toward rebellion. She had ordered it from a first-class West End dress-maker.
“Send the bill to Mr. Wynne Rendall at the Vandyke Theatre,” she had said.