Crossley,'' said Mildred.
``I should be tempted to say I was, if I wasn't,''
said he, and his manner made it a mere pleasantry to
put her at ease.
``There was no one in the outside room, so I walked
on and on until your door stopped me.''
``You'll never know how lucky you were,'' said he.
``They tell me those fellows out there have shocking
manners.''
``Have you time to see me now? I've come to apply
for a position in musical comedy.''
``You have not been on the stage, Miss--''
``Gower. Mildred Gower. I've decided to use my
own name.''
``I know you have not been on the stage.''
``Except as an amateur--and not even that for
several years. But I've been working at my voice.''
Crossley was studying her, as she stood talking--
she had refused the chair. He was more than favorably
impressed. But the deciding element was not
Mildred's excellent figure or her charm of manner or
her sweet and lovely face. It was superstition. Just
at that time Crossley had been abruptly deserted by
Estelle Howard; instead of going on with the rehearsals
of ``The Full Moon,'' in which she was to be starred,
she had rushed away to Europe with a violinist with
whom she had fallen in love at the first rehearsal.
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