The dress-rehearsal had just dragged its weary length to a close. It is the custom of the dwellers in Atlantic City, who seem to live entirely for pleasure, to attend a species of vaudeville performance—incorrectly termed a sacred concert—on Sunday nights: and it had been one o’clock in the morning before the concert scenery could be moved out of the theatre and the first act set of “The Rose of America” moved in. And, as by some unwritten law of the drama no dress-rehearsal can begin without a delay of at least an hour and a half, the curtain had not gone up on Mr Miller’s opening chorus till half past two. There had been dress-parades, conferences, interminable arguments between the stage-director and a mysterious man in shirtsleeves about the lights, more dress-parades, further conferences, hitches with regard to the sets, and another outbreak of debate on the subject of blues, ambers, and the management of the “spot,” which was worked by a plaintive voice, answering to the name of Charlie, at the back of the family circle. But by six o’clock a complete, if ragged, performance had been given, and the chorus, who had partaken of no nourishment since dinner on the previous night, had limped off round the corner for a bite of breakfast before going to bed.
They were a battered and a draggled company, some with dark circles beneath their eyes, others blooming with the unnatural scarlet of the make-up which they had been too tired to take off. The Duchess, haughty to the last, had fallen asleep with her head on the table. The red-headed Babe was lying back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. The Southern girl blinked like an owl at the morning sunshine out on the boardwalk.
The Cherub, whose triumphant youth had brought her almost fresh through a sleepless night, contributed the only remark made during the interval of waiting for the meal.
“The fascination of a thtage life! Why girls leave home!” She looked at her reflection in the little mirror of her vanity-bag. “It is a face!” she murmured reflectively. “But I should hate to have to go around with it long!”
A sallow young man, with the alertness peculiar to those who work on the night-shifts of restaurants, dumped a tray down on the table with a clatter. The Duchess woke up. Babe took her eyes off the ceiling. The Southern girl ceased to look at the sunshine. Already, at the mere sight of food, the extraordinary recuperative powers of the theatrical worker had begun to assert themselves. In five minutes these girls would be feeling completely restored and fit for anything.
Conversation broke out with the first sip of coffee, and the calm of the restaurant was shattered. Its day had begun.
“It’s a great life if you don’t weaken,” said the Cherub, hungrily attacking her omelette. “And the wortht is yet to come! I thuppose all you old dears realithe that this show will have to be rewritten from end to end, and we’ll be rehearthing day and night all the time we’re on the road.”
“Why?” Lois Denham spoke with her mouth full. “What’s wrong with it?”
The Duchess took a sip of coffee.
“Don’t make me laugh!” she pleaded. “What’s wrong with it? What’s right with it, one would feel more inclined to ask!”
“One would feel thtill more inclined,” said the Cherub, “to athk why one was thuch a chump as to let oneself in for this sort of thing when one hears on all sides that waitresses earn thixty dollars a month.”
“The numbers are all right,” argued Babe. “I don’t mean the melodies, but Johnny has arranged some good business.”
“He always does,” said the Southern girl. “Some more buckwheat cakes, please. But what about the book?”
“I never listen to the book.”
The Cherub laughed.
“You’re too good to yourself! I listened to it right along and take it from me it’s sad! Of courthe they’ll have it fixed. We can’t open in New York like this. My professional reputation wouldn’t thtand it! Didn’t you thee Wally Mason in front, making notes? They’ve got him down to do the rewriting.”