“Of course I will!” Magsie agreed, but she did not say it heartily.  The conversation was not extremely pleasing to Magsie at the moment.  She loved Warren, of course, but it was certainly a good deal to resign, even to marry a Gregory of New York!  Why, here was Billy, who had been a rich man’s daughter, and had married the man of her choice, and had a nice child, mad to step into her shoes!

And it was a painful reflection that probably Billy could do it.  Billy was smart, she had a dash and finish about her that might well catch a manager’s eye, and more than that, it was a rather poor part.  It was no such part as Magsie had had in “The Bad Little Lady.”  There was a comedian in this cast, and a matinee idol for a leading man, and Magsie must content herself with a part and a salary much smaller than was given to either of these.

She thought of Warren, and also fleetingly of Bryan Masters, and even of Richie Gardiner, and decided that it was a bitter and empty world, and she wished she had never been born.  Bowman would be smart enough to see that he need pay Billy almost no salary, that she might be a discovery—­the discovery for which all managers are always so pathetically on the alert, and that in case the play failed—­Magsie was sure, this morning, that it would be the flattest failure ever seen on Broadway—­he would have no irate leading lady to pacify; Billy would be only too grateful for the opportunity to try and fail.

“Farce is the most difficult thing in the world to play,” she said, now clinging desperately to her little distinction.

“Oh, I know that!” Billy answered absently.  She would have a smart apartment on the Drive, and dear little old Breck should drive with her in the Park, and go to the smartest boys’ school in the country—­

“And of course, I may not marry!” said Magsie.

Carol hardly heard her.  She was looking about the comfortable hotel apartment, all in a pretty disorder now, with Magsie’s various possessions scattered about.  There were pictures of actors on the mantel, heavily autographed, and flowers thrust carelessly into vases.  There was a great sheaf of Killarney roses; the envelope that had held a card still dangled from their stems.  Carol would have given a great deal to know whose card had been torn from it, and whose name was ringing just now in Magsie’s brain.  She even cared enough to tentatively interrogate Anna, Magsie’s faithful Swedish woman.

“Well, perhaps we shall have a change here, Anna?” Billy said brightly but cautiously, when she was in the hall.  She wondered whether the woman would let her slip a bill into her hand.

“Maybe,” said Anna impassively.

“How shall you like keeping house for a man and wife?” Billy pursued.

“Aye do that bayfore,” remarked Anna, responsive to this kindly interest; “aye ban hahr savan yahre, now, en des country.”

“And do you like Miss Clay’s young man?” Billy said boldly.  But at this shift of topic the light faded from Anna’s infantile blue eyes, and a wary look replaced it.