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around the make-up shelf, hearing the rush and whisper backstage, running into it, joining Vernon in the wings between the heavy curtains.
"Don't be frightened. Remember you are a dancer," he said.
She wasn't frightened.
"Ladies and gentlemen," boomed a voice out front. "We're sorry to announce: Irene Castle is unable to appear tonight because of illness. We are fortunate to have in her place a little dancer who is making quite a name for herself, Miss MAE MURRAY. If any of you wish your money refunded "
"Stay, you won't be sorry, stay," she thought. "I can't be Irene but I'm Mae Murray and you haven't seen her. Stay and see her!'
A great wave came rushing toward them, Berlin's overture, so loud and big it drowned them in the rock and roar of ragtime. The curtains swung open, the show was on, she was whirled, dashed, flung into the light. Out there beyond the blinding footlights, critical eyes were watching — she could sense them watching every movement. Vernon whirled her away, brought her back; they were bound together lightly, impersonally. The curtain fell, applause thundered. She strutted through her fox trot, warm, exhilarated, the lovely chiffon flowing about her. When the final curtain fell, Vernon pulled her forward to take a bow alone.
She stood bathed in a flood of approbation, kissing her hands to them. This is what Bernhardt knew. Bernhardt was worshipped, Duse, all the greats of the theatre. The curtain abruptly cut her off from radiance.
"Good girl; you killed them," Dillingham said. He hugged her and his fierce white moustache brushed her cheek. "Do you know, not one person asked for a refund?"
She broke from him and ran back onto the stage. "Thank you, thank you, you wonderful people," she called. But the aura of light had vanished; they were standing in the aisles now making a clatter of their own, just ordinary people chattering with their backs turned.
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