I've been longing to do—Ibsen and Hauptmann, and Werfel, and Schnitzler, and Molnar, and Chekhov, and Shakespeare even. Ken! We'll call it the American Theatre!"
"The American Theatre," Magnolia repeated after her, thoughtfully. And smiled then. "The American Theatre." She looked a trifle uncomfortable, as one who has heard a good joke, and has no one with whom to share it.
A loud-tongued bell clanged and reverberated through the show boat's length. Dinner.
Kim and Ken pretended not to notice the heat and flies and the molten state of the butter. They met everyone from the captain to the cook; from the ingénue lead to the drum.
"Well, Miss Ravenal, this is an—or Mrs. Cameron, I suppose I should say—an honour. We know all about you, even if you don't know about us." Not one of them had ever seen her.
A little tour of the show boat after dinner. Ken, still pale, but refreshed by tea, was moved to exclamations of admiration. Look at that, Kim! Ingenious. Oh, say, we must stay over and see a performance. I'd no idea! And these combination dressing rooms and bedrooms, eh? Well, I'll be damned!
Elly Chipley was making up in her special dressing room, infinitesimal 1n size, just off the stage. Her part for to-night was that of a grande dame in black silk and lace cap and fichu. The play was The Planter's Daughter. She had been rather sniffy in her attitude toward the distinguished visitors. They couldn't patronize
