It was the first time she had seen the wonderful “Countess” costume. She held it up and looked at it sadly, almost with reverence; new and unworn, it was already a relic. Slowly, thoughtfully, caressingly, she smoothed out the creases; then, sobbing, she hung it in the closet.
An hour later, Jean, left alone, still sat staring, still idly tracing with her finger the scrollwork pattern on an exquisite silver slipper. The prolonged ringing of the bell for luncheon aroused her from her lethargy. She rose mechanically, and walked over to the window. How foreign everything looked outside in the sunlight! The passers-by, how queer and busy!
“Dead!” she whispered to herself. Then, drawing a deep breath, she opened the new, unopened chapter of her life. Jean Caspian had awakened to the realization that Destiny had handed her only a sample of success, not a complete package.
II
“OUT,” “Gone to Chicago,” “Busy,” “At rehearsal,” “Won’t be back till next Thursday,” “Got a card?” “Don’t know.” These melancholy refrains, sing-songed by officious, gum-chewing office-boys in the stuffy theatrical agencies, soon became as familiar to Jean Caspian as “Annie Laurie” or “Home, Sweet Home.”
“Mornin’ ’s the best time to catch him,” “He ain’t seein’ any one to-day,” “Ain’t puttin’ on any shows this spring,” “Gone to lunch. No, I couldn’t say.”
Sometimes, in desperation, Jean would approach the sleepy, red-headed type-writer with a brave smile. To all inquiries this remote, supercilious personage always replied, “Cast is filled.”—Click-click-clickety, click, click, click.
During the first week after Norman’s death, Jean gained a momentary interview with B. B. Littleton’s representative. When she mentioned that she had been leading lady for Guy Norman, he smiled incredulously.
“Lord!” he said, “I have a dozen a day in here claiming they were with Norman. It’s a joke, here.”
Jean produced a Milwaukee program bearing her name. The representative, after inspecting it, somewhat reluctantly consented to take her name and address.