Milly had not seen Barrymore in “Peter Ibbetson.” In the first place she had not the slightest notion who Barrymore was and in the second place she had not the slightest idea of what he should be doing in “Peter Ibbetson” or any one else, and how he managed it.
“Who’s Barrymore?” demanded Milly.
“My dear woman! Is it possible you don’t know the Barrymores?”
“One can’t know everybody,” remarked Milly witheringly. She considered this neat and sophisticated, wishing at the same time she had bought a dress with a low neck. She had as good shoulders as any one in the room. Besides, this was New York. She would buy a “low neck”—a “very low neck”—next day. She was glad she still had almost two hundred dollars left of Nat’s money.
“But the Barrymores, Mrs. Forge. I mean Lionel and John.”
“Are they brothers—or something?”
“Yes,” collapsed the stout man. “Brothers? Oh, yes! Certainly!”
“And who’s Peter Ibbet’s Son?”
“Peter Ibbetson—Ibbetson! A play, you know—at the Republic.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Milly. “You’re talkin’ about a show. What kind of show is it? Funny?”