“I’ll bear you in mind,” he said. “You might drop in in a month or so.” But never again did Jean succeed in finding him “in.”
Day after day; hot after cold, optimistic mornings and discouraged afternoons; weary, irritable, hungry; now happy, now sad; standing, leaning, gossiping, hoping, always hoping, Jean Caspian, her ambition priming her with bravery to keep up the ordeal, “went the rounds” from managers to agents, from agents to managers. As regularly as the doors opened every morning, she blossomed in a theatrical office, as fresh, lovely, vigorous as a newly opened lily. Yesterday’s weariness was forgotten in to-day’s enthusiasm.
Two months went by. No engagement. Two months more went by. No prospect of an engagement. Another month, then the inevitable—clothes!
How surely her clothes betrayed her! From boarding-house to Broadway they blabbed the tale of her futile peregrinations. Worn-out clothes, shabby-shiny clothes, spots-that-won’t-come-off clothes. Worse than these, stagy-old “stock” clothes; but, worst of all, out-of-date clothes. The time came when Jean, gazing lugubriously at her last three gowns, now dubbed severally “Wreck,” “Goner,” and “Mess,” saw that further wear was impossible. At last she broke down.
But out of despairing tears came inspiration. It was one of the articles of Jean’s esthetic creed that the test of genius is versatility. She should be able to be carpenter, dish-washer, or to model in wax, as necessity dictated. If she were to portray life, all aspects of life, this adaptability alone would justify her calling herself an artist. Now fortune had put her to the test. She must prove herself adequate to the emergency. With a grim smile of determination, Jean jerked the three gowns down from their hooks.
Two days later “Pa” Smiley gave her an encouraging smile. “Pretty dress you got on, little one! Noo, ain’t it? That what they call a ‘pannier’?”
“Oh, no,” said Jean, “this is newer than that. The name of this little frock is the ‘Three-in-one,’ successor to ‘Wreck,’ ‘Goner,’ and ‘Mess.’ Got anything for me to-day, Mr. Smiley?”
It was nearly noon when Della Prance and Clara Coolwood collided with her on the corner of Forty-second Street.
“Oh, I love your hat, Jean! Where? How much?”
Della Prance added: