She would
do as best she could, and move along, keeping her eyes open;
and perhaps some day a chance for much better terms might
offer--for the best--for such terms as that famous actress
there had got. She looked at Mary Rigsdall. An expression in
her interesting face--the latent rather than the surface
expression--set Susan to wondering whether, if she knew
Rigsdall's _whole_ story--or any woman's whole story--she might
not see that the world was not bargaining so hardly with her,
after all. Or any man's whole story. There her eyes shifted
to Rigsdall's companion, the famous playwright of whom she had
so often heard Rod and his friends talk.
She was startled to find that his gaze was upon her--an
all-seeing look that penetrated to the very core of her being.
He either did not note or cared nothing about her color of
embarrassment. He regarded her steadily until, so she felt, he
had seen precisely what she was, had become intimately
acquainted with her. Then he looked away. It chagrined her
that his eyes did not again turn in her direction; she felt
that he had catalogued her as not worth while. She listened to
the conversation of the two. The woman did the talking, and
her subject was herself--her ability as an actress, her
conception of some part she either was about to play or was
hoping to play. Susan, too young to have acquired more than
the rudiments of the difficult art of character study, even had
she had especial talent for it--which she had not--Susan
decided that the famous Rigsdall was as shallow and vain as Rod
had said all stage people were.
Pages:
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688