The curtain had come down for the ninth and last time. Everyone on the stage was in a hubbub of frenzied congratulation. Frances West, in her make-up of Biddy, the old Irish orange-woman, was being embraced by most of the women in the company, while her hands were warmly shaken by the men. Then she hurried to her dressing-room and pulled out a telegraph form, on which she scribbled: “Miss Imogen Lennox, Central Park School, West 67th Street, New York. Struck it at last. Fond love. Mother.” The call-boy was summoned to take the dispatch. He glanced at it with American informality. “That’s so, Miss West. You’ve struck it sure. Gee, but you got them by the neck!” he elaborated enthusiastically,…
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