“There’s just two people I want to square myself with—that little actress who didn’t realize what I was there for, and that damned actor who knocked me through the bass-drum. Who were they, anyway? I didn’t get a program.”
“I didn’t see the man’s name; but the girl—I used to know her.”
“You did! Say!”
“She was only a kid then, and so was I. She could act then, too,—for a kid, but now—You missed the rest of the show, though, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I was called away.”
“After you left, the audience was as good as a congregation. Sheila Kemble—that’s the girl—was wonderful. She didn’t have much to do, but, golly! how she did it! She had that thing they call ‘authority,’ you know. I wrote a play for her as a kid.”
“You did! Say! Did she like it?”
“She never saw it. But I’m going to write her another. I planned to be a professor of Greek—but not now—ump-umm! I’m going to be a playwright. And I’m going to make a star out of Sheila Kemble, and hitch my wagon to her.”
“Well, say, give me a ride in that wagon, will you? Do you suppose I could meet her? I’ve got to square myself with her.”
Eugene looked a trifle pained at Bret’s interest in another girl than Dorothy, but he said: “I’m on my way to the theater now to find out where she’s stopping and leave this note for her. I don’t suppose she’ll remember me; but she might.”