“Not at all,” said Sheila. “I’ll never act again. I was just saying that it wouldn’t harm the baby if I did. And,” she added, meekly, “it might be the making of him to have me out of the way.”
She said this with honest deprecation. She was troubled to find that she had not become one of those mere mothers that are so universal in books. She was horrified to discover that at times the baby lost its novelty, that its tantrums tried her nerves. She did not know enough to know that this was true of all mothers. She felt ashamed and afraid of herself. She did not return to her normal glow of health so soon as she should have done. She kept thin and wan. Cheerfulness was not in her, save when she played it like a rôle.
At length the doctor recommended a change of scene. Since it was not quiet that she needed, he suggested diversion, a trip to the city. The three Winfields made the journey—father, mother, and baby, not to mention the nurse.
The quick pulse and exultant life of New York reacted upon Sheila. She found the theaters a swift tonic, and, since “The Woman Pays” was now on the road after a long season on Broadway, there was no danger of choosing the wrong theater. She and Bret reveled in the plays with the ingenuous gaiety of farmers in town.
At this time, also, a monster “all-star” benefit was being extensively advertised. A great fire had destroyed a large part of one of our highly inflammable American cities, leaving thousands of people in such distress that public charity was invoked. The actors, as usual the most prompt of all classes to respond to any call upon their generosity, organized a huge performance to be given at the Metropolitan Opera House.
Players, managers, scene-painters, and scene-shifters were emulous in the service. Stars offered to scintillate in insignificant rôles. A program lasting from one o’clock to six was speedily concocted. The Opera House was not large enough for the demand. Boxes were sold by eminent auctioneers at astonishing premiums.
Bret took it into his head to assist. He paid two hundred dollars for a box.
Sheila left the baby with the nurse, put on a brand-new Paris frock, and gulped an early luncheon that she might not miss a line. Bret saw with mingled relief and dismay that she was as eager as a child going to her first party.
They read with awe the name-plate on the door of the box they had rented; it was that of one of the war lords of American finance.