nything wrong, dear Max?" inquired her best beau, noting her
expression.

"Yes," she replied, "but it's chronic in our family!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Isabelle went directly to their town house and demanded a bed of the
caretaker, who was an old family servant. At ten in the morning she
presented herself at the stage door of the New York Theatre, and sent in
a card to Mr. Cartel. Word came out that he had not arrived. She was not
permitted to go in, and to her great indignation she had to march up and
down the alley for an hour until the great one came.

At sight of him she felt that all her troubles were at an end. She
hurried forward with a confident smile, as he stepped from his motor. No
gleam of delight at the sight of her overspread his features, however.
He saw her; he bowed.

"Ah--I got your message," he said, absently. "I don't think that there
is anything for you."

"There's got to be something for me," said Isabelle with promptness and
vigour. "You let me desert my family for a career, and you've got to
help me."

"But, my dear girl, I urged you not to break with your family, you
know."

"It's too late to talk about that. Here I am. Now, what are you going to
do about it?"

"Well, come in," he said, curtly; and they went into the theatre.

It was Isabelle's first view of the hindside of the mysteries. It was a
hot day, and rehearsal was in progress. A group of people sat listlessly
about the stage, on kitchen chairs, while a man in a neglige shirt and
no coat urged them to get a little "pep" into the scene "for the love of
God!" Cartel's arrival caused a ripple. All the actors sat up, as if
electrified. The stage manager advanced at once to speak with him. He
glanced at Isabelle, but Cartel made no move to introduce them. In fact
he seemed to have forgotten about her. He issued brief orders, asked a
few questions, turned to go. Then, as if on an afterthought, he added:

"By the way, Jenkins, this is Miss Isabelle Bryce. Try her out in the
maid's part, will you?"

Mr. Jenkins nodded to Isabelle, who was furious at her hero for this
casual treatment of her career.

"Come over here," ordered Jenkins, indicating a chair and offering her a
script. "Read 'Mary,'" he added, briefly, and went on with the
rehearsal.

Isabelle was dazed. It was so different from her idea of it. She had
supposed Cartel would introduce her to the company and the manager as a
genius he h