“Over in Dell’s room” they damned, “over in Dell’s room” they praised. “What d’ you think, Dell! Lazette is stranded out in Omaha, and is working her way back to Smiley’s. Playing a real chambermaid now, for a change, in the Grand Hotel! It looks like a good, long engagement, too.” “She got the lead in that play, really? Flora Gordo! That’s bully! She deserves it. Say, I want to get up and yell when a girl wins out honestly in this business. It’s impossible, but it can be done.”
Toward five o’clock the room fairly clattered. Dell was like the leader of an orchestra; she struck high C. And while the sharps and flats of those excited voices ran upward, through arpeggios of laughter, to mingle with the chords and discords of the clamorous piano, where the latest song “hits” were banged and yelled, Dell would feel her liveliest notes of merriment suddenly change to a nervous tremolo. The elevator door had banged! Was this grand concerted movement to culminate in a series of staccato door-whacks by that irate hotel proprietor?
Not this time. To-day, the grand finale was more musical, with the long, persistent tinkling of the telephone-bell.
“Let her ring!” “Tell ’em to come over, Dell.” “The more the merrier—what?”
As Della Prance sent one of her high-spirited, whimsically affected “hello’s!” over the wire, a fresh explosion of laughter rattled along with it. An instant later, something ominous in Dell’s voice wrought a sudden transition in those mirthful faces. While the company wondered, the receiver clicked, and from the pale, bewildered Dell their answer came.
“Say, you all—or I guess the most of you, anyway—have heard of Jean Caspian? Well, that was Clara—Clara Coolwood—on the ’phone. What d’you think? She’s just run into Jean, down and out, in a little cheap-joint place. Oh, girls, think of it! Jean Caspian is manicuring nails down in Fourteenth Street!”
A faint gasp was audible, though no one uttered a word. But their unspoken thoughts seemed to cry out the inevitable reflex of egoism: “Oh, the stage! The life of the stage! I wonder where I’ll end up.”
“Poor Clara!” Dell continued. “It’s been about two months now. Jean just suddenly disappeared out of her life. Clara wrote to Jean’s mother—to every one who knew her, but she never got an answer. And here to-day in Smiley’s office some girl Clara got into conversation with told her about this little place where you get your nails done for twenty cents. Jean Caspian! Think of it!” Dell shook her head incredulously. “I tell you, when a genius like that—”
“Good Lord!” From the corner of the room a raucous voice rattled in. “Genius!” she gibed. “Well, I never saw a so-called genius yet that didn’t end at the bottom of the ladder. These actresses with a future! Say, take it from me, you can usually find them—well, like your wonderful Jean Caspian, in the manicure parlors. But, say, whenever you hear it whispered, ‘Oh, she’ll never act!’ believe me, you can just watch for Somebody’s Favorite to give you the wink in electric lights.”
With a fling, she donned her hat and coat, and moved toward the door. “Say, don’t you mind anything I say, Dell. I’m madder than a wet hen to-day. This hard-luck atmosphere has got on my nerves. Good-by, everybody! See you at Smiley’s in the morning.”