“Oh, why didn’t you let me know and help?” she repeated.  She had the man take her round and round the Park, where it was quiet.  She must get herself in hand.  She felt that at the slightest excuse she would burst into hysterics!  More than ever, now, must she be mistress of herself for the coming interview.  She must fight to catch the big manager’s attention, and win her way with him.  She drew her furs about her, closed her eyes, and tried to shut out the sight of that sordid, wretched room, where handsome big Jarvis was paying the toll to success—­toll of blood and brain and nerves, paid by every man or woman who mounts to the top!  She saw him climbing wearily those dirty stairs, coming into the cell.  Over and over she saw it, like a moving-picture film repeated indefinitely.

At quarter before three she ordered the driver to the Empire Theatre.  This time his face cleared.  Actress, of course.  Probably went to the slums to look up a drunken husband.  He drew up at the theatre, demanded a queen’s ransom for her release, and stood at attention.  She was too nervous to notice the amount, and paid it absently, dismissed him, and hurried to the elevator.

She was first shown into the general-domo’s office, where she was catechised as to her name and her business.  She waited fifteen minutes while her name was passed down the line.  Word came back that Mr. Frohman was engaged.  Would she please wait?

“I’ll wait, but my appointment was at three,” she said.

The major-domo looked at her as if such lese majeste deserved hanging.  In fifteen minutes more she was conducted into an anteroom, where she was turned over to a secretary.  Her business was explained to him.  In due course of time word came out that Mr. Frohman would be through in ten minutes.  She was moved, then, to a tiny room next the sacred door leading into the inner mystery.  Twenty minutes passed, then a youth appeared.

“Mr. Frohman will receive you now,” he announced in solemn tones.

Bambi refrained from an impulse to say, “Thank you, St. Peter,” and followed into the private office.  For a second she was petrified with fear, then with the courage of the terror-stricken she marched down the long room to the desk where Mr. Frohman sat looking at her.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said he.

Bambi fixed her shining eyes upon him and smiled confidently.

“I feel as if I’d gotten into the Kingdom of Heaven for a short talk with God!”

The smile on the manager’s face broke into a laugh.  “Is it as bad as that?  Sit down and see how you like it up here?”

“Thanks,” she said, sinking into the big chair beside the desk.

“So you wrote ‘Francesca,’ did you?”

“I did.”

“You look pretty young to know as much about life as that book tells.”

“Oh, I’m old in experience,” she boasted.

He looked closely at her ingenuous face, and laughed again.