There was something in her glowing, childish face, innocent of make-up, and in her seeming frank enjoyment of the mishap that took the house by storm. The man in the box applauded until his face was purple; gloved hands in the parquet tapped approval; the balcony stormed; the gallery whistled.

She never knew how she got off the stage, or whether the director shouted praise or blame as she darted through the wings. It was not until she reached the dressing-room, and the girls crowded excitedly around her that she knew she had scored a hit.

She came on once more at the end of the last act in the grand ballet, where all the dancers performed intricate manoeuvers under changing lights. Every time the wheeling figures brought her round to the footlights, there was a greeting from the front, and, despite warnings, she could not suppress a responsive wag of the head or a friendly wave of the paw.

"She is so fresh, so fresh!" groaned Pulatki from the wings.

"She's alive," said Reeser. "She'll never make a show girl, and she's got no voice to speak of. But she's got a personality that climbs right over the footlights. I'm going to engage her for the rest of the season."

When the play was over, Nance, struggling into Birdie's complicated finery in the dressing-room below, wondered how she could ever manage to exist until the next performance. Her one consolation was the immediate prospect of seeing Mac Clarke and the mysterious Monte to whom Birdie had said she must be nice. As she pinned on a saucy fur toque in place of her own cheap millinery, she viewed herself critically in the gla.s.s. Beside the big show girls about her, she felt ridiculously young and slender and insignificant.

"I believe I'll put on some paint!" she said.

Birdie laughed.

"What for, Silly? Your cheeks are blazing now. You'll have time enough to paint 'em when you've been dancing a couple of years."

They were among the last to leave the dressing-room, and when they reached the stage entrance, Birdie spied two figures.

"There they are!" she whispered to Nance, "the fat one is Monte, the other--"

Nance had an irresistible impulse to run away. Now that the time had come, she didn't want to meet those sophisticated young men in their long coats and high hats. She wouldn't know how to act, what to say. But Birdie had already joined them, and was turning to say airily:

"Shake hands with my friend Miss Millay, Mr. Clarke--and, I say, Monte, what's your other name?"

The older of the young men laughed good-naturedly.

"Monte'll do," he said. "I'm that to half the girls in town."

Mac's bright bold eyes scanned Nance curiously. "Where have I seen you before?" he asked instantly.

"Don't you recognize her?" said Monte. "She's the little bear! I'd know that smile in ten thousand!"

Nance presented him with one on the spot, out of grat.i.tude for the diversion. She was already sharing Birdie's wish that no reference be made to Calvary Alley or the factory. They had no place in this rose-colored world.

Monte and the two girls had descended the steps to the street when the former looked over his shoulder.

"Why doesn't Mac come on?" he asked. "Who is the old party he is arguing with?"

"Oh, Lord! It's old man Demry," exclaimed Birdie in exasperation. "He plays in the orchestra. Full of dope half of the time. Why don't Mac come on and leave him?"

But the old musician was not to be left. He pushed past Mac and, staggering down the steps, laid his hand on Nance's arm.

"You must come home with me, Nancy," he urged unsteadily. "I want to talk to you. Want to tell you something."

"See here!" broke in Mac Clarke, peremptorily, "is this young lady your daughter?"

Mr. Demry put his hand to his dazed head and looked from one to the other in troubled uncertainty.

"No," he said incoherently. "I had a daughter once. But she is much older than this child. She must be nearly forty by now, and to think I haven't seen her face for twenty-two years. I shouldn't even know her if I should see her. I couldn't make shipwreck of her life, you know--shipwreck of one you love best in the world!"

"Oh, come ahead!" called Birdie from below. "He don't know what he's babbling about."

But the old man's wrinkled hand still clung to Nance's arm. "Don't go with them!" he implored. "I know. I've seen. Ten years playing for girls to dance. Stage no place for you, Nancy. Come home with me, child. Come!"

He was trembling with earnestness and his voice quavered.

"Let go of her arm, you old fool!" cried Mac, angrily. "It's none of your business where she goes!"

"Nor of yours, either!" Nance flashed back instantly. "You keep your hands off him!"

Then she turned to Mr. Demry and patiently tried to explain that she was spending the night with Birdie Smelts; he remembered Birdie--used to live across the hall from him? She was coming home in the morning. She would explain everything to Mrs. Snawdor. She promised she would.

Mr. Demry, partly rea.s.sured, relaxed his grasp.

"Who is this young man, Nancy?" he asked childishly. "Tell me his name."

"It's Mr. Mac Clarke," said Nance, despite Birdie's warning glance.

A swift look of intelligence swept the dazed old face; then terror gathered in his eyes.

"Not--not--Macpherson Clarke?" he stammered; then he sat down in the doorway. "O my G.o.d!" he sobbed, dropping his head in his hands.

"He won't go home 'til morning!" hummed Monte, catching Birdie by the arm and skipping down the pa.s.sage. Nance stood for a moment looking down at the maudlin old figure muttering to himself on the door-step; then she, too, turned and followed the others out into the gay midnight throng.

CHAPTER XIX

PREPARATIONS FOR FLIGHT

What a radically different place the world seems when one doesn't have to begin the day with an alarm clock! There is a hateful authority in its bra.s.sy, peremptory summons that puts one on the defensive immediately. To be sure, Nance dreamed she heard it the following day at noon, and sprang up in bed with the terrifying conviction that she would be late at Miss Bobinet's. But when she saw where she was, she gave a sigh of relief, and snuggled down against Birdie's warm shoulder, and tried to realize what had happened to her.

The big theater, the rows of smiling faces, the clapping hands--surely they must have all been a dream? And Mr. Demry? Why had he sat on the steps and cried into a big starchy handkerchief? Oh, yes; she remembered now, but she didn't like to remember, so she hurried on.

There was a cafe, big and noisy, with little tables, and a woman who stood on a platform, with her dress dragging off one shoulder, and sang a beautiful song, called "I'm A-wearying for You." Mr. Monte didn't think it was pretty; he had teased her for thinking so. But then he had teased her for not liking the raw oysters, and for saying the champagne made her nose go to sleep. They had all teased her and laughed at everything she said. She didn't care; she liked it. They thought she was funny and called her "Cubby." At least Mr. Monte did. Mr. Mac didn't call her anything. He talked most of the time to Birdie, but his eyes were all for _her_, with a smile that sort of remembered and sort of forgot, and--

"Say, Birdie!" She impulsively interrupted her own confused reflections.

"Do you think they liked me--honest?"

"Who?" said Birdie, drowsily, "the audience?"

"No. Those fellows last night. I haven't got any looks to brag on, and I'm as green as a string-bean!"

"That's what tickles 'em," said Birdie. "Besides, you can't ever tell what makes a girl take. You got a independent way of walking and talking, and Monte's crazy 'bout your laugh. But you're a funny kid; you beckon a feller with one hand and slap his face with the other."

"Not unless he gets nervy!" said Nance.