ms, she had utterly overlooked Jimmy--overlooked the
fact that, as a dramatic critic, he'd be certain to be present at the
opening performance of _The Girl Up-stairs_--certain to be sitting close
to the front, and certain, of course, to recognize her the moment she
came on the stage. She hadn't even had him in mind when the fear lest
some one of Rodney's friends might, for a lark, drop in at the Globe and
recognize her, had led her to tell John Galbraith that she couldn't be
in the sextette. Since that question had been settled, she'd hardly
considered the possibility at all. And, during the three weeks before
the opening, since she'd embarked on her career as a costumer, she
literally hadn't given it a thought.

She had dreaded various things as the hour of the opening performance
drew near--reasonable things like the failure of the piece to please,
the reception of their offerings in a chilly silence intensified by
contemptuous little riffles of applause. (She had been in audiences
which had treated plays like that--taken her own part in the expression
of chill disfavor, and she knew now she could never do it again.) She
had dreaded unreasonable things, like the total failure of any audience
to appear and the necessity of playing to empty rows as they had done in
rehearsal; nightmare things, like a total loss of memory, which should
leave her stranded in the middle of a silent stage before a jeering
audience. But it hadn't occurred to her to dread that the rise of the
curtain would reveal to her any of the faces that belonged to a world
which the last six weeks had already made to seem unreal.

So the sight of Jimmy Wallace had something the effect that a sudden
awakening has on a somnambulist--bewilderment at first, and after that a
sort of panic. Her first thought was that she must get word to him,
somehow, before he left the theater. Unless she could do that, what was
to prevent his going straight to Rodney, to-night, and telling him all
about it? He was under no obligation not to do it. He was Rodney's
friend quite as much as he was hers.

It didn't take her long to make up her mind though that he wouldn't do
that. Jimmy was never precipitate. He'd give her a chance. To-morrow
morning would do. She could call him up at his office.

But as she began formulating her request and phrasing the preface of
explanations she'd have to make before she'd be--well, entitled to ask a
favor of him, she found herself in a dif