“There’s something better than that ready for you. We want you to do the Gertrude in Ned’s play.”
“Is the People’s still open?” she cried in astonishment. “Cissie said it had gone dead broke, and was shut for good.”
“This is our last effort; and we want to go down waving the flag. It’s Farson’s play—”
“Yes, I know—he tried to put me in, but I bet he didn’t succeed.”
“It’s a good play, though! And Ned has slaved for the theater these last two years. We must do our best for him. Has he written you about the play?”
The calm, impersonal way in which she admitted her correspondence with the young secretary pleased Brainard unreasonably.
“He’ll be there for luncheon; so speak to your friend, and let’s be off.”
Miss Pyce condescended to accept the invitation to breakfast from the proprietor of the People’s Theater, as she had nothing better to do with her time. Her own manager had wounded her vanity by not appearing at the dock with an automobile. So the three were soon tucked into Brainard’s motor and crossing the ferry. Miss Pyce inquired after the fate of the People’s company in a tone of lofty kindness, until Louisiana kicked her about the ankles, causing her to relapse into a sulky gloom.
“The salubrious air of Broadway will do you good, I hope, Cissie,” Louisiana remarked severely. “I’ve stood your nonsense for six days because I had to. Now come to, please! Just because you’ve got a fool play, and a fool manager to waste his money on you, you needn’t try the Duse-Bernhardt-Ellen Terry pose on old friends!”
Miss Pyce promptly descended several steps and began to converse about the New York weather, which she said was trying to English nerves.
When they arrived at Brainard’s house, they found that Farson had not yet come in from rehearsal. The two women were shown into the little den behind the library, while Brainard glanced over his mail.
Five minutes had scarcely elapsed when a shriek came from the inner room, and the door was thrown violently open. Louisiana stood on the threshold, clasping against her breast a little picture framed in a thin gold molding.
“Where did you get _this_?” she demanded breathlessly.
Brainard looked at her admiringly. As she stood there against the dark shadows of the inner room, the sun from the window falling in a great gold bar across her auburn hair and violet-colored traveling dress—thin, erect, full of the passionate eagerness of youth—he saw Farson’s character created.