“But with Guy Norman,” Clara insisted.
“Guy Norman,” said Jean deliberately, “is under his own management. If he doesn’t play again this year, where shall I be? Have any of the big New York managers ever heard of me—B. B. Littleton, for instance? If he should happen to hear of my brief career as leading lady, has he ever seen me act? No. Therefore Jean Caspian does not exist. Why, you know very well, Clara Coolwood, that until the curtain goes up on you on Broadway, and they see you in the actual flesh, you might just as well have been playing on Mars.”
Jean was mechanically pulling on her coat.
Clara nodded thoughtfully.
“I’m afraid you’re right, Jean. Yes, remember poor Julia Wilcox, drawing crowds every day to that Baltimore stock theater for eight years? And when she opened in New York the critics said, ‘Unknown actress makes a sensation.’ Where are you going, Jean?”
“Why, I’m going to find Davey. Stage-managers usually know the truth, if they’ll only tell.”
Jean put on her hat and set out for the theater. In the stage entrance she met Guy Norman, calm, smiling, the picture of health. As he lifted his hat with his customary air of distinction, Jean inquired timidly for news.
“Why, yes; we’re going to close Saturday night. It’s all so silly, in a way, but my physician and manager were so importunate about my having a rest that I decided to humor them. I thought it might be wise to recuperate for the New York engagement.”
Jean smiled her relief, and was about to leave when he called her back.