ky and I sank into
the old-fashioned brocaded seats I resolutely put away from my mind
all disturbing thoughts of the woman in the lobby who appeared on such
good terms with my husband, and prepared to enjoy every moment of the
evening.

"Well done, Madge," Dicky whispered mischievously, as, after we had
been seated, I let my cloak drop from my shoulders without arising.
"You wriggled that off in the most approved manner."

"I ought to," I whispered back. "I've watched other women with envious
attention during all the lean years, when I wore tailor-mades to mill
and to meeting."

Dicky squeezed my hand under cover of the cloak. "No more lean years
for my girl if I can help it." he murmured earnestly.

Dicky appeared to know a number of people in the audience. A
half-dozen men and two or three women bowed to him. He told me about
each one. Two were dramatic critics, others artist and actor friends.
Each one's name was familiar to me through the newspapers.

"You'll know them all later, Madge," he said, and I felt a glow of
pleasure in the anticipation of meeting such interesting people.

Dicky opened his program, and I idly watched the people between me and
the stage. A few seats in front of us to the left I caught sight of
the woman who had claimed Dicky's acquaintance in the lobby. She
was signaling greetings to a number of acquaintances in a flamboyant
fashion. She would bow elaborately, then lift her hands together as if
shaking hands with the person she greeted.

"Who is she, Dicky?" I tried to make my voice careless. "I did not
catch her name when you introduced us."

"You'll probably see enough of her so you won't forget it," returned
Dicky, grinning. "She's one of the busiest little members of the
'Welcome to Our City Committee' in the set I train most with. She
won't rest till you've met all the boys and girls and been properly
lionized. She's one of the best little scouts going, and, if she'd cut
out the war paint and modulate that Comanche yell she calls her voice
there would be few women to equal her for brains or looks."

"But you haven't told me yet what her name is," I persisted.

"Well, in private life she's Mrs. Harry Underwood--that's Harry with
her--but she's better known all over the country as the cleverest
producer of illustrated jingles for advertising we have. Remember that
Simple Simon parody for the mincemeat advertisement we laughed over
some time ago, and I told you I knew the woma