her. She applied the rouge to her withered cheeks in little pettish dabs, and leaned critically forward to scrutinize her old mask of a face. What did she see there? Kim wondered, watching her, fascinated.
"Mother tells me you played Juliet, years ago. How marvellous!"
Elly Chipley tossed her head skittishly. "Yes, indeed! Played Juliet, and was known as the Western Favourite. I wasn't always on a show boat, I promise you."
"What a thrill—to play Juliet when you were so young! Usually we have to wait until we're fifty. Tell me, dear Miss La Verne"—elaborately polite, and determined to mollify this old harridan—"tell me, who was your Romeo?"
And then Life laughed at Elly Chipley (Lenore La Verne on the bills) and at Kim Ravenal, and the institution known as the Stage. For Elly Chipley tapped her cheek thoughtfully with her powder puff, and blinked her old eyes, and screwed up her tremulous old mouth, and pondered, and finally shook her head. "My Romeo? Let me see. Let—me—see. Who was my Romeo?"
They must go now. Oh, Nola darling, half a million! It's too fantastic. Mother, I can't bear to leave you down in this God-forsaken hole. Flies and Negroes and mud and all this yellow terrible river that you love more than me. Stand up there—high up—where we can see you as long as possible.
The usual crowd was drifting down to the landing as the show-boat lights began to glow. Twilight was
