Blithely she spoke: “Is Mr. Littleton in? His representative! No, I must see Mr. Littleton, himself. Oh, no, I can’t wait; I must see him at once. Oh, dear!”
Jean smiled at her as at a vision of her own first hopeful credulity. Yet, after all, she thought, wasn’t this ingenuous faith as good a passport as any to carry one across the frontier of that door marked “Private”? What did these stage-worn veterans possess that could compete with this splendid, potent ignorance? Nothing. To-day, at least, that girl was a leader. She was still uncontaminated with discouraged, diseased thoughts. How long before some one would tell her, or she would decide for herself simply to follow the crowd? Jean’s thoughts drifted to herself. Oh, the “Personal” letters she, too, had blithely borne to stolid, unsympathetic readers! What was the matter? She was only a follower. That was it: she was wearily tagging along the beaten path. Had any one ever accomplished anything really great in this world by following others along the same old groove? Oh, to get out of it!
The thought disturbed her. She grew restless; and as she pondered, instinct seemed to warn her: “Get out of the rut!” “But how?” she asked herself, with increasing anxiety. An excited hesitancy, shot with fear and doubt, possessed her. It held her like a prisoner who lacks the courage to escape.
Suddenly her thoughts were dissipated by the opening of the private door. “There’s no need of any one waiting; I have nothing to say to any one to-day.” The private door closed.
To have a three-hours’ wait terminated only by a few casual words from Littleton’s representative usually left a drowning expression on every face. A few of the determined-to-survive actors, however, fighting their way through grumblers, swearers, fighters-for-the-elevator, snatched desperately at the one last straw—the stenographer. “When is the best time to catch Mr. Littleton?” “Did you deliver the letter I left yesterday for Mr. Littleton?” “Will you kindly tell Mr. Littleton that Miss Fuller—”
Jean listened to this fusillade of questions being answered with a volley of type-writer clicks that made an occasional interpolated “He’s uncertain,” and “Don’t know,” scarcely audible. She smiled grimly, deciding that she would have to use her full third-balcony voice if she was to impress this cold-blooded, businesslike Annie at the keys. As Jean looked forward to speak, she accidentally caught sight of herself in that young lady’s private mirror. She gave a quick second look, and the sickening revelation held her gaze fixedly. She grew weak, numb.
She did not realize that the clicks had stopped. She was oblivious of the stenographer’s hand pressing her own. “What’s the matter, honey? What you crying about? Blue this morning? Want to leave some message for Mr. Littleton?”
Jean Caspian’s face showed not the faintest knowledge of the stenographer’s sudden interest in her. But, subconsciously, she had reached for a bejeweled hand and pressed it into pain with her gratitude. Her voice came weakly: “I don’t think—thank you so much, but—well—” She shook her head dully. “I don’t think I’ll have any more messages for Mr. Littleton.” With a quick release of her hand, Jean Caspian escaped from the office, moaning to herself: “So I’ve got the look at last! It’s come!”
How jocosely she had once written to Clara Coolwood about those theatrical-agency faces—those “pathetic, whipped-cur” faces! How she had mimicked them! Guy Norman’s voice came back: “Give us another one of those agency faces, Miss Caspian! Do ‘Agony Jane’!” How Guy Norman’s laughter had delighted her! Now it seemed to slap back at her, torturing her horribly. She was only one of the rabble now. She, too, was a mummy. Agony Jane!
The poignancy of the thought sent her wandering on and on till at last she wearily climbed the steps to her boarding-house. Mechanically she took out her key, turned the latch, and entered the dimness of the hallway.