“Good! I guess that’s the record for a woman. Well, then, see here. I’ve had a ‘lemon’ wished on me in this new production of mine. She’s a great friend of the author; acts like a—well, she’s impossible. The show’s going to the devil. Now, I’ve always said I’d rather have the worst professional than the cleverest amateur in any show of mine. You’ve got to have experience; you simply must know how to handle the stage. But I’m so sick of author’s friends and influence and all those gold bricks I’ve stood for, that for just once I’m going to break all my rules and take a chance on you, young lady!
“Now, see here; Monday morning you take the train for New Bedford, and travel with the company for two weeks. Rehearse, and watch it from the front every night. Then we’ll see what you can do. Now, young lady, you may not know it, but there’s a chance that doesn’t come once in a stage-lifetime. Excuse me for a moment, please.”
As she waited for him to finish a heated telephone conversation, her voyaging eyes stopped suddenly at a large framed photograph on the wall. It was a picture of Guy Norman, and there she herself was, in the very scene she last played with him in Milwaukee! There she was, too, in this very office she had so many months tried in vain to enter! Guy Norman! A choking came in her throat. His cuffs,—the way he jerked them back; that overcoat, flung over a chair at rehearsal; that fresh, folded handkerchief, never opened. “Très bien, Ma’m’selle.” Tears were gathering in her eyes.
Littleton whirled round to her.
“Now, about your name. You know, this ‘Vinnie Smith’ sounds to me like a country dressmaker.” He stopped, stared at a tear trickling down her cheek, and added kindly: “Oh, don’t feel hurt, my dear; they all take stage names, you know. Why, Sarah Dover’s real name is McGillicuddy. Now, I’ve been thinking over some names. I’ll tell you—what was that, now? Sher—”
“My mother’s name was Caspian.”
“Caspian? Bully!”
“Oh, I wish I could take my favorite name. It’s Jean.”
Littleton poked her with his pencil. “Say, you can kiss Vinnie Smith good-by right now. Jean Caspian, I wish you luck!”
IN three weeks Littleton received the following telegram from Springfield: