“Draw’n-room commerdies mostly. People call ’em Roger Kemble parts.”
Mrs. Vickery spoke with a sudden increase of respect:
“So your father is the great Roger Kemble! And is your mother an actress, too?”
“Is my mother an actress? Why, Mrs. Vickery, didn’t you ever hear of Miss Polly Farren?”
It would have been hard indeed to escape the name of Miss Polly Farren. It was incessantly visible in newspapers and magazines, and on bill-boards in letters a yard high, with colossal portraits attached. Mrs. Vickery had seen Polly Farren act. A girlish, hoydenish thing she was, who made even the women laugh and love her. Mrs. Vickery felt at first a pride in meeting any relative of hers. Then a chill struck her. She lowered her voice lest the children hear:
“But Miss Farren isn’t your mother?”
“Indeed and she is! And I’m her daughter.”
“And Roger Kemble is your father?”
“Yes, indeedy. We’re all each other’s.”
Mrs. Vickery turned dizzy; the room began to roll like a merry-go-round—without the merriment. Sheila, never realizing the whirl she had started, brought it to a sudden and gratifying stop by her next chatter.