“Well, mummsy,” Sheila cried, taking her mother in her arms, “why don’t you say something?”
“I—I don’t know what to say,” Polly whimpered.
Roger’s uneasy eyes were attracted by the living-room table, where there was a comfortable clutter of novels and magazines. A copy of The Munsey was lying there; it was open, face down. Roger picked it up and offered the open book to Sheila.
She and Winfield looked down at a full-page portrait of Sheila.
“Had you seen this, Mr.—Mr.—Wingate, is it? It’s a forecast of the coming season and it says—it says—” He produced his eye-glasses and read:
“ ‘The most interesting announcement among the Reben plans is the statement that Sheila Kemble is to be promoted to stellar honors in a new play written especially for her. While we deplore the custom of rushing half-baked young beauties into the electric letters, an exception must be made in the case of this rising young artist. She has not only revealed extraordinary accomplishments and won for herself a great following of admirers throughout the country, but she has also enjoyed a double heritage in the gifts of her distinguished forebears, who are no less personages than’—et cetera, et cetera.”
Sheila and Winfield stared at the page from which Sheila’s public image beamed quizzically at herself and at the youth who aspired to rob her “great following” of their darling.
“What about that?” said Roger.
Winfield looked so pitiful to Sheila that she cried, “Well, my ‘great following’ will have to follow somebody else, for I belong to Bret now.”
“I see,” said Roger. “And when does the rising young star—er—set? When does the marriage take place?”