She glanced round the room. At the huge open window Brent,
his back to her, was talking earnestly to a big hatchet-faced
man with a black beard. Even as Susan glanced Brent closed
the interview; with an emphatic gesture of fist into palm he
exclaimed, "And that's final. Good-by." The two men came
toward her, both bowed, the hatchet-faced man entered the
elevator and was gone. Brent extended his hand with a smile.
"You evidently didn't come to work today," said he with a
careless, fleeting glance at the _grande toilette_. "But we
are prepared against such tricks. Garvey, take her down to
the rear dressing-room and have the maid lay her out a simple
costume." To Susan, "Be as quick as you can." And he seated
himself at his desk and was reading and signing letters.
Susan, crestfallen, followed Garvey down the stairway. She
had confidently expected that he would show some appreciation
of her toilette. She knew she had never in her life looked so
well. In the long glass in the dressing-room, while Garvey
was gone to send the maid, she inspected herself again.
Yes--never anything like so well. And Brent had noted her
appearance only to condemn it. She was always telling herself
that she wished him to regard her as a working woman, a pupil
in stagecraft. But now that she had proof that he did so
regard her, she was depressed, resentful. However, this did
not last long.
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