Isabelle walked Miss Watts for miles. She would not answer questions, nor discuss the events leading up to Cartel’s outburst.

“Of course, he isn’t a gentleman,” was her only remark during the entire walk. Poor Miss Watts was utterly in the dark over the whole situation. She was sitting quietly in the dressing room, reading the Atlantic Monthly, under the impression that the play was going nicely, when the terrible outbreak of Cartel occurred. One thing she grasped, and that was that the girl was suffering, so she let her alone and trudged along beside her, as well as she could.

Suddenly Isabelle called a taxi, and ordered the driver to hurry them home.

“I won’t see the Wallys to-night,” she said, as they reached the house. “If they’re home, you tell them whatever you like.”

But the Bryces were not in yet, so Matthews told them. Isabelle rushed upstairs, and went to bed, with a brief good-night to Miss Watts. An hour later Max snapped on the light in Isabelle’s room, and evidently spoke to Wally.

“The little beast is asleep!” she said. “Did you ever hear anything equal to that?”

Isabelle heard him laugh; the light was turned off, and her parents went on their way. They never had any part in her crises. They thought this terrible, wracking fiasco was funny! She covered her ears to shut out the hideous wild laughing of that audience. She could never forget it as long as she lived—that gust of laughter, as if the solid earth had begun to rock and roll.

She tried to think back to the beginning of the disaster, but it was all hazy in her mind—a chaos of lights, people, applause, excitement—a mixture of the rÔle she was playing and the one she had made up for herself. She could not remember when it was that she began on the wrong Mary.

She viewed the ruins of her hopes, lying all about her. She heard Cartel’s shrieks of rage, and that awful laughing! It was terrible—terrible! And nobody would understand. There was nothing for her to do, but die.

She thought back to another time when she had wanted to die, and dear Mrs.Benjamin had comforted her. If only she were here now she would understand, and help her to face her disgrace. What was she to do? How could she live it down? She must hide somewhere. Maybe she ought to disappear in the morning, before her parents were awake. That would let her out of the much-dreaded interview with them. So with this idea in her mind, she fell into troubled sleep, at dawn.

When she woke, it was to broad daylight, and the presence of her father and mother.

“Oh!” sighed Isabelle, as her eyes fell on them.

“You’ve been asleep all day,” said her mother. “We thought maybe you’d taken something.”

“Taken something?”

“Drug, or something.”

“Is it late?”

“Four o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Oh, and I intended to get away early this morning.”

“Get away where?” inquired Wally.

“Anywhere out of sight”—desperately.

He sat on the edge of her bed.

“Look here, kid, just what did happen?”

“You’ll never understand, and I’m not going to talk about it,” she said, sullenly.

“You needn’t take that tone,” said her mother, sharply. “You’ve made an utter fool of yourself, and of us, too.”

“Now, Max, let her alone to-day,” Wally protested.

“It’s always ‘Let her do it her own way,’ with you. You backed her up in this foolishness. We’ve had all the publicity I intend to have through Isabelle. She will go back to school, and stay in retirement, until we are ready to bring her out,” said Mrs.Bryce, firmly.

“All I say is that to-morrow is soon enough to take it up with her. The kid’s had a bad fall, and she needs to get together.”

“Yes, she has! She comes home and goes to sleep for sixteen hours, while we read the newspapers.”

“Newspapers?”

“Column after column of what you did to Cartel’s opening. If he doesn’t sue Wally for a fat sum, I miss my guess.”

“What did they say?”

“You can read them for yourself. I intend that you shall. If there is any way to cure your conceit, I’d like to see it done,” Mrs.Bryce continued.

“Plenty of time later,” urged Wally, distressed at his daughter’s white, tragic face. “Did Cartel say anything to you last night?”

Isabelle nodded.

“Dismissed you?”

Again she inclined her head.

“I should hope so,” laughed Max, shortly. “Paper says he has gone to Atlantic City with a nervous collapse.”

“And the play?” Isabelle said.

“Closed. That’s what you did. Must have endeared yourself to the company.”

With a groan, Isabelle turned her face to the wall, and Wally dragged Max out of the room.

Later Miss Watts came in to offer tea. The girl refused it, but she begged her companion to bring her all the morning papers.

“Wait until to-morrow, my dear,” Miss Watts begged, alarmed at the change in her.

“No. I want to get it over.”

So the papers were brought.

After propping her up on pillows and seeing that she was bodily comfortable at least, Miss Watts withdrew. Isabelle began at the beginning and read every word about that unhappy opening. The articles were written with a jocularity hard to bear. Most of them had graduated out of the regular dramatic review columns on to the first page. “Hilarious Opening at the New York Theatre!” “Cartel’s Find!” “Impromptu Artist Makes Bow.” These were some of the captions.

They all developed the story for what it was worth: Cartel’s discovery of Isabelle at the inn; a few paragraphs about her family; mention of the wonderful publicity provided for her; a description of the brilliant first-night audience, with the Bryces’ distinguished guests in all the boxes; Isabelle’s reception as the maid. Then followed the plot of the play, up to the awful moment when Cartel’s “discovery” forgot her lines and began to improvise. They painted the star’s astonishment and subsequent fury. They added speculation as to the real climax of the evening which must have taken place back on the stage after the dropping of the final curtain. Every article made you hear the uncontrollable laughter of the audience.

Isabelle agonized over each one. She raged at the opinion of one dramatic critic who said that no doubt Cartel would release Miss Bryce on the morrow, but that a dozen managers would step forward to capture a young woman of such marked personality, and such a talent for publicity.

Max was right; they were all ruined. She had made the whole family ridiculous. She wasn’t surprised that Max hated her for it. She deserved anything from them now. She lay in bed for several days, scarcely touching food, brooding upon her disgrace until she was really ill.

Wally hovered about her, deeply concerned, but not knowing how to comfort her. He kept Max out of the room as much as he could. Finally he sent for a doctor.

“Perfectly unnecessary,” said his wife. “She isn’t sick. She’s made a fool of herself and lost the middle of the stage, so now she goes on a hunger strike to work up a little sympathy.”

“The kid is suffering, I tell you. She is all broken up over this. I think we ought to take her away somewhere.”

“You can count me out. I’ve been dragged home to open this house for her convenience. I’m not going off to some empty resort place because she needs a change.”

The doctor had a talk with Isabelle, told her to cheer up, gave her a tonic, agreed with Wally that she needed a change, and went on his way.

Martin Christiansen asked Max about Isabelle and was informed that she had the sulks. He asked permission to see her, and he was the first visitor admitted to her room. He was shocked at the change in her. She was thin, and haggard, and old. Her eyes hurt him. She was sitting up, in a big chair, wearing a bizarre Chinese coat, all orange and black and gold. She looked any age, an exotic little creature. The hand she offered was thin as a bird’s claw.

“I’ve been thinking that you might understand,” she said to him, before he could speak.

“Thank you.”

He drew a chair beside hers and waited.

“You didn’t think I forgot my lines, did you?”

“It wasn’t like you.”

“I didn’t. I was bored at rehearsals, and so I made up a wonderful Mary-part for myself, a noble character whom every one trusted.”

Her eyes were upon his face, and he nodded slowly, hoping that his amusement did not leak through his expression.

“Every day, all those hours, I used to be this made-up Mary, and just toward the last I got a little wobbly as to which Mary was which,” she admitted.

“Naturally.”

“I knew you would see that. Well, the night of the opening I was so excited that I mixed them all up.”

She said this with such tragic emphasis that he did not even want to laugh.

“How unfortunate!” he exclaimed.

“No, it wasn’t unfortunate,” she cried; “it was stupid, stupid, stupid!”

“Yes, it was, a trifle,” he admitted.

“I thought I was going to be such a success. I just knew I could act. Cartel said it would take me years of hard work even to begin to be an artist, and I thought I could just show him.”

“I think you may be said to have shown him!” Christiansen remarked.

“Yes, I did. I showed him I was a fool. I don’t wonder that he nearly killed me for it.”

“No doubt it was real agony for a man as highly strung as he is. For months he had been building a fine house, and in three blows you sent it crumbling.”

“Oh, don’t!” groaned Isabelle.

“I didn’t come to reproach you. I came to help. I want to be sure that we both understand that you have been to blame in this affair. That settled, we’ll go on to the next step.”

“There isn’t any next step. I’ve disgraced us all.”

“Oh, come, it isn’t so bad as that. You have given a great many people a good laugh, and no doubt they are very grateful to you for it. Now, do you want to go on with the stage?—really to study the fine art of acting?”

“No! no! NO!”

“What are your plans?”

“I haven’t any.”

“You cannot spend the rest of your life in this room, my child.”

“I’d like to.”

“There’s always something to be made of our tragedies, Isabelle. The first thing is to get yourself well again. You’re all eyes. It won’t do. You must go away and get together, and when you come back we will have a talk about your work. I’m sure you have talent of some sort, if we can just direct it properly.”

“I’ll never believe in myself again.”

He laughed and patted her hand.

“Europe is out of the question. How about Bermuda? Ever been there?”

“No”—indifferently.

“Just the place. Lots doing. Soldiers recuperating, people to watch, people to play with. Fine place for you. I’ll suggest it to your parents.”

He rose and took her two small hands.

“You promise me to get well, and to come back your old vivid self?”

“I’ll try. You are a comfort. You helped that other time, too, when the guillotine nearly broke Tommy Page’s neck.”

He threw back his head and laughed so heartily at the memory, that she laughed too.

“I’ve always been rather ridiculous, haven’t I?” she asked him.

“My child, that is an elderly remark,” he said, and he left her—on the whole, cheered.

He promptly made his suggestion to the Bryces. It was discussed pro and con and then finally it was decided to ship the girl off, in Miss Watts’s care, for it was evident that she was making herself ill with the humiliation of her failure.

So, one day in November Wally saw them off.

“You look like a Brownie,” he said, as he kissed Isabelle good-bye. “For goodness’ sake, get some flesh on your bones.”

“Don’t worry, old thing,” she answered. “I’ll come back fat, and chastened in spirit.”

He grinned, and ran for the gangway, and stood waving and smiling as the steamer slipped from the pier.

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