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“Yes, of course,” I answered. “Just what is it—?”

“I have something to say to you . . . and to show you, I think,” she said. “Something that happened that might interest you.”

“Of course,” I said, following her rapidly as she threaded her way off stage to the Number Two dressing room, next to the star dressing room that would now never be occupied by Augustin Arnold.

She sat down before her mirror when she entered, and motioned me to a seat at the side. Her negro maid was hovering around at one end of the room where, behind a curtain, hung the wardrobe of the actress. Betty Sargent turned to her.

“Delphine,” she said.

“Ma’am?”

“I shan’t need you any more tonight. You must be tired . . . you can go now.” The maid willingly took herself off.

We waited for her to go, talking of one or two trivialities, the nature of which I have forgotten, so enchanted was I with her low-pitched musical voice, the grace and naturalness of her motions, the elusive evanescence of her beauty. I know I seem to be growing lyric about Betty Sargent—but really, you ought to have seen her. It would happen to anybody, I am sure. To me, even from that first moment, she made