The little girl looked up at him, and surveyed him intently and critically, and then smiled, with the dimples showing, as much as to say that she understood him and approved of him entirely.  Van Bibber answered this sign language by taking Madeline’s hand in his and asking her how she liked being a great actress, and how soon she would begin to storm because that photographer hadn’t sent the proofs.  The young woman understood this, and deigned to smile at it, but Madeline yawned a very polite and sleepy yawn, and closed her eyes.  Van Bibber moved up closer, and she leaned over until her bare shoulder touched his arm, and while the woman buttoned on her absurdly small shoes, she let her curly head fall on his elbow and rest there.  Any number of people had shown confidence in Van Bibber—­not in that form exactly, but in the same spirit—­and though he was used to being trusted, he felt a sharp thrill of pleasure at the touch of the child’s head on his arm, and in the warm clasp of her fingers around his.  And he was conscious of a keen sense of pity and sorrow for her rising in him, which he crushed by thinking that it was entirely wasted, and that the child was probably perfectly and ignorantly happy.

“Look at that, now,” said the wardrobe woman, catching sight of the child’s closed eyelids; “just look at the rest of the little dears, all that excited they can’t stand still to get their hats on, and she just as unconcerned as you please, and after making the hit of the piece, too.”

“She’s not used to it, you see,” said the young woman, knowingly; “she don’t know what it means.  It’s just that much play to her.”

This last was said with a questioning glance at Van Bibber, in whom she still feared to find the disguised agent of a Children’s Aid Society.  Van Bibber only nodded in reply, and did not answer her, because he found he could not very well, for he was looking a long way ahead at what the future was to bring to the confiding little being at his side, and of the evil knowledge and temptations that would mar the beauty of her quaintly sweet face, and its strange mark of gentleness and refinement.  Outside he could bear his friend Lester shouting the refrain of his new topical song, and the laughter and the hand-clapping came in through the wings and open door, broken but tumultuous.

“Does she come of professional people?” Van Bibber asked, dropping into the vernacular.  He spoke softly, not so much that he might not disturb the child, but that she might not understand what he said.

“Yes,” the woman answered, shortly, and bent her head to smooth out the child’s stage dress across her knees.

Van Bibber touched the little girl’s head with his hand and found that she was asleep, and so let his hand rest there, with the curls between his fingers.  “Are—­are you her mother?” he asked, with a slight inclination of his head.  He felt quite confident she was not; at least, he hoped not.