“No line under your eyes,” Rita said. “That makes you look older, and you have to shave off about five years since Miriam is supposed to be about fourteen. Now, bring your rouge up a little closer to your eyes and not so far out on your cheek—you want to have a round effect. There!” Rita looked at Peggy appraisingly. “What do you think?”
Peggy looked at herself and was pleased. She would appear about fourteen on stage, she thought. She hadn’t been quite satisfied with her make-up at dress rehearsal. She put on her little navy-blue jumper and white blouse, brushed on her powder and was done.
“Telegrams!” a voice outside the door announced. “Are you decent?”
“We are, come in,” Rita said, and Richard came through with a stack of yellow envelopes, handing them to the girls.
“I have to get out front,” Richard said, “but I know you’ll be terrific. Break a leg!”
“Break a leg!” Mary gasped as he left. “Why—what a thing to say!”
“It means good luck,” Peggy explained as she put her telegrams in front of her mirror. “Theater people always say that, or something like it—it’s an old superstition.”
“I see. Why don’t you open your telegrams?” Mary asked.
“Oh, we never do,” Alison answered. “Not until after the show.”
“That’s in case any of them are bad news,” Rita explained.