Mildred reluctantly rose, moved toward the door with
lingering step. ``I guess I'd better make a start,''
said she.
``That's the talk,'' said Mrs. Belloc heartily. But
the affectionate glance she sent after the girl was dubious--
even pitying.
IX
TWO minutes' walk through to Broadway, and she
was at her destination. There, on the other side of the
way, stood the Gayety Theater, with the offices of Mr.
Clarence Crossley overlooking the intersection of the
two streets. Crossley was intrenched in the remotest
of a series of rooms, each tenanted by under-staffers
of diminishing importance as you drew way from the
great man. It was next to impossible to get at him--
a cause of much sneering and dissatisfaction in theatrical
circles. Crossley, they said, was exclusive, had
the swollen head, had forgotten that only a few years
before he had been a cheap little ticket-seller grateful
for a bow from any actor who had ever had his name
up. Crossley insisted that he was not a victim of folie
de grandeur, that, on the contrary, he had become less
vain as he had risen, where he could see how trivial a
thing rising was and how accidental.
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