Littleton, baffled, bewildered, watched them, utterly at a loss, pulling his beard savagely.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he said. Then slowly his face lightened to an indulgent smile. “See here, Miss Caspian, I always thought you were a genius, but now I’m sure of it. Yes, you certainly put it over! Haw-haw-haw!”
SOON after the performance was over that night, Jean and two excited, happy girls hastened from the theater and jumped into a taxicab. Over in Dell’s room they laughed; over in Dell’s room they wept.
“Oh, Jean, it’s awful!” said Clara. “I can’t bear to hear it.”
“Go on! Go on!” said Della Prance. “I want to hear it all.”
“It’s not what she’s telling that affects me. It’s awfully funny, some of it; but it’s something—” Clara slipped down on the floor beside Jean and took her hand. “It’s your voice, Jean—that’s it! It’s something it’s done to it.” She gripped Jean hard. “Jean, you’ve won something more than they ever saw to-night. It’s something that you’ll always have now. It’s been worth the whole game!”
The clock struck three. The parable of the little boy and the gutter-nickel was finished. Silence fell in the room; the girls communed without words. Then Clara rose, yawned, and gave a broken laugh.
“Think of Smiley’s in the morning, Dell!”
