This argument had convinced her. She consented to play one more season at Miss Neely’s school. She came forth more zealous than ever to be an actress. Polly and Roger had wheedled her along as best they could, tried to interest her in literature, water-colors, needlework, golf, tennis, European travel. But her cry for “work” could not be silenced.
When the autumn drew on they had urged her to try one year more at school, pleaded that there was no opening for her in their company. She was too young, too inexperienced.
She murmured “Yes?” with an impudent uptilt of inflection.
She left the house, and came home that afternoon bringing a contract. She handed it to her father with another of those rising inflections, “No?”
He looked at the paper, gulped, called, “Polly!”
They looked it over together. The party of the first part was J. J. Cassard.
“And who is J. J. Cassard?” said Polly, trying not to breathe fast. Roger growled:
“One of those Pacific-coast managers trying to jimmy a way into New York.”
Hoping to escape the vital question by attacking the details, Roger glanced through the various clauses. It was a splendid contract—for Sheila. The hateful “two-weeks’ clause” by which she could be dismissed at a fortnight’s notice was omitted and in its place was an agreement to pay for her costumes and a maid.
“Do you mean to say,” Kemble blustered, “that Cassard handed you a document like that right off the reel?”