acrobatic dancer who had just left after complaining about sharing a dressing room with a stuck-up soprano. The soprano was stuck-up. The nerve of her, telling him she was married, as if that had anything to do with it. She had shown him everything, and then—nothing doing. Teasers, that's what they all are.
He looked up and saw Lucy and it was as if a follow-spot had caught at the top of a stage staircase a tantalizing nymph. Resurrection of Mr. Brady's jaded spirits began. He took in the makeup, the eager golden tendrils, and the tight belt. And she had come to him by herself, without the mother.
"Well, well—how's Pavlova this morning!"
The big pupils of Lucy's delphinium eyes measured him intently and her expression was solemn. He was more friendly than she had expected. She laughed suddenly and came forward with coquettish small steps, wobbling a little on the high heels. He laughed too, almost boyishly.
My goodness, I wonder whether he ever brushes those green teeth?
Mr. Brady felt young. This kid did things to him.
"I guess you'd like to see the show, huh?"
He would take her down into the theatre by way of the backstage stairs. He could tell there how far to go.
She drew her breath, as a singer preparing for a phrase. "Thank you, Mr. Brady, that isn't what I came for. What I want is a chance to dance in one of your acts, chorus or anything."
She watched his smile dissolve. "Well now, girlie, I don't know—I get my acts from New York."
"I know, but I heard you hire extra girls from Denver sometimes."
It was true. There were certain fill-ins who took places at a moment's notice in the perpetually changing chorus line. Fill-ins whose ambition for the bigtime was past and who alternated locally between vaudeville and burlesque. This kid could be on the way up. She sure had the boys panting Saturday night. Sure he could give her a job, but let her work for it. These teasers always expect jobs for nothing. This kid might know the score though, making up like that. He whistled softly between his dark teeth.
Lucy had a wild impulse to giggle. Frank whistled like that before he began trying to kiss her.
"Now, let's see—you want to be a dancer, huh?"
"Yes, sir. I can dance better than Saturday night. That floor was too slippery."
