“Oh no,” perked Sheila; “he gave me a regular white-slave mortgage at first.”
“Where does she learn such language!” gasped Polly.
Sheila went on, “But I whipped him out on every point.”
“It looks almost suspicious,” said Kemble, and Polly protested.
“I was ten years on the stage before I got my modern costumes and a maid.”
“Well,” said Sheila, as blandly as if she were a traveling saleswoman describing her wares, “Cassard said I was pretty, and I reminded him that I had the immense advertising value of the great Roger Kemble’s name, and I told him I had probably inherited some of the wonderful dramatic ability of Polly Farren. I told him I might take that for my stage name—Farren Kemble.”
Father and mother cast their eyes up and shook their heads, but they could not help being pleased by the flattery implied and applied.
Roger said: “Well, if all that is true, we’d better keep it in the family. You’ll go with us.”
“But you said there was no part for me to play.”
“There’s the chambermaid.”