6 The Box Office Girl BY ARNOLD BENNETT What Caused Elaine Edar to Choose Her Husband? THE ROTUNDA ROYAL is the largest music hall In London and the most successful music hall in London, and it bums »or« electricity than any other place of amusement in London. Its upper parta are glitterlngly ouffined in green and yehow electricity; its high tower can be glimpsed from all man ner of streets, and the rich glow of the whole affair illuminates a cloudy •"'ky the whole of central London to see. Though entirely respectable, it has an altar of its own in the hearts of the young and the old bloods of pro vincial cities who come to town strictly on business. It is the mecca of suburban inhabitants with a dull afternoon In front of them and 10 shillings in their pockets to squan der. To have his or her name printed -n fire on the facade of the Rotunda is the ambition of every music hall artist in the world, and of many an<- other artist besides. In brief, the Rotunda is a very important, grandi ose and impressive organism—an or ganism which emphatically functions. And it is a household word. Even judges of the high court have heard of the Rotunda. No daily paper in London ever appears without men tion of it somewhere. Now. daily and nightly, behind a counter on your left as you enter by the main entrance into the grand loyer, stood until lately a girl named Elaine Edar. She was a blonde, with bright hair, an attractive, pretty and benevolent face and a good figure, because these attributes were essen tial to her position. Her simple, smart dress was of black, but it had touches of fantasy and of color, be- 1 cause Mr. AValter King (managing director, risen from call boy. as be openly stated about ten times every day) had said that be did not care for his girls to look like hotel clerks. Elaine's face and hair were known to tens of thousands of people. Often in the street such people would start at the sight of her and murmur something to a companion, and Elaine knew that they were saying; “That’s the box-oflice girl at the Rotunda.’’ So that she had a certain impor tance on earth, and assuredly at the Rotunda For she gathered in money, ] and to Mr. Walter King the Rotunda was in the end nothing but a machine j for gathering in more money than it paid out. Not that Elaine was the sole in strument for gathering in money. Far from it: Above her counter were displayed the words; “Box office for this performance only. Boxes. Royal i fauteuils. Royal stalls. Stalls. Grand i balcony.” All advance boohing' was j done in a special office up the street, I nnd each of the unreserved parts of ] the house had its own entrance, with turnstile and money taker. Still, Elaine took a goodish bit of money twice a day, and she was easily the most prominent of all the human machines that received silver coins and notes in exchange for bits of col ored paper or base-metal disks. Twelve performances a week, and Elaine bad to be on duty ten minutes before the doors opened re main on duty until one hour before the end of each performance. Then she had to check her money and prove to the cashiers department that the total was correct. An anx ious job, especially during the “rush" quarter of an hour, when she had to read with the glance of an eagle the | numbers on the ‘‘sheet’’ of the per- j fofmance, treat every patron as a benefactor, return good for evil, give ] change like a flash of lightning, dc- < tect spurious coins in the tenth of a I second and render sweet smiles to i louts, curmudgeons and cats. Happily, she was by nature pro- i soundly and generally benevolent. I and in this respect indeed a wonder | to her assistant, who did the tele- i phoning and lent a general hand. It i was her benevolent air that had rec- | ommended her to Mr. Walter King, i who had sacked her predecessor for i bring hoity-toity to patrons when- j ever business was abnormally good, i She was devoted to the theater. No body thought of her apart from the theater, and in fact she had little ! private life. Mr. Waller King was himself passionately devoted to the theater, and he expected all the staff to be passionately devoted to the the ater; but whereas bis own devotion brought in a large share of the prof its, Elaine’s devotion brought in only a small fixed salary, which Mr. King did not dream of passionately in creasing when business grew fabu lous. Elaine saw nothing odd in this arrangement. •J* *»• TT was a quarter to 10. The day’s "*• work was nearly over. Elaine’s assistant had gone. The entrance? hall and foyer blazed deserted with their superlavish electricity. When an idle program girl swung Open a door at the end of a vast corridor and peeped forth, Elaine could faintly catch the sound- of clapping. She rarely got more 9f a performance than these brief distant rumors of applause. For her the Rotunda was not an auditorium, but a foyer with box office, and the artists were mere names on bills. She estimated the quality of the applause, and glanced at the clock and the time table to know who was being applauded, for she had to bo in a position to inform patrons what artist was "on” at any given moment. Then she proceeded with the secret counting of notes on a shelf beneath the counter. In view of the absence of a grille to protect the counter and of the prevalence of gangs of robbers in London, her situation with all that money for Mr. Walter King might seem perilous. But it was not so in reality. Elaine and her treasure were well guarded by formidable giants and astute dwarfs in the shape of gorgeous doormen and pages. Though be disapproved of grilles, Mr. Walter King took no chances with the night’s receipts. Then a dark and elegant young man in full evening panoply appeared from the street. The eraardlans sa luted him. He saluted Elaine. This unidentified and mysterious gentle man came nearly every night toward 10 o’clock. Elaine guessed that he came to witness the performance of the Russian dancer, the Incompara ble, Illustrious Feodora. “Did you keep the fauteull for me, iniw Edar?” He had picked up her name from somewhere, It seemed. She nodded, kindly smiling. She liked the regular visitant, not in the least because he was regular, but because ho was dark, elegant, slim and had a sad, wistfrofemilc. Yes, she had kept the him, despite the fact that ifhad not come to claim it she would have had to pay for it out, of her own 4>ockct. He usually telephoned just before the rush, and Elaine had accepted the risk of his not coming quite a dozen times. Occasionally, as tonight, ho would try to get a box, and if successful would pay for both the box and the stall. And he would show amazing indecisions. Tonight she had no box to sell; the sole empty seat in the house was the one she had retained for him; and yet, In his rich, low voice, he would keep talking about a box, and also she had to repeat to him several times precisely where the stall was in regard to the stage. At length he paid, raised his hat again and went off toward the audi torium, followed by her benedictory, sympathetic smile. The head door man. his pocket gaping for the har vest of sixpences which he would shortly garner for putting patrons into cars and taxis, winked at her rather broadly, as if to indicate that the dark gentleman was queer in the head. But Elaine gently deprecated the wink, seeing in the dark gentle man a victim of hopeless love for a Russian dancer. :).• * s’: s,; IJLAINE had taken out the self locking steel cash drawer from its niche, detached and bidden the telephone and was about to disappear through the little door behind the counter when Rachel Gordon hurried up, rather breathless, from some where. “I’m the publicity lady,” Rachel would introduce herself to the new artists in the wings and in dressing rooms when she wanted material for piquant dress paragraphs. She did all the day-to-day publicity work for the Rotunda. A pretty Jewess, with full lips and eyes, waved hair, strik ing clothes, carefully tended com plexion and a general air of knowing all that was worth knowing; not quite young, but far ,from old. She spent every evening in the theater, and little in it escaped her attention. “Fco asked me to give you this note.” said she. “I’m so glad I’ve caught you before you'd gone.” She handed the note, with a char acteristic. sparkling glance that was full of chicane and the spirit of Plotting. “Feo!” Thus she famil iarly referred to the great, the unique Feodora. But, then, she managed to be very friendly with all, and she could he highly useful even to the greatest. As Elaine read the note she showed'extreme astonishment. It ran: “My dear Miss Edar, I give a party tomorrow night at the Fantasy Club, some friends, dancing, fun. Will you come? I do hope. Your obliged Fco.” Indeed, the thing was enough to astonish a box-office girl. "Your obliged.” Elaine knew what that re ferred to. A fortnight earlier, when a not uncommon state of war existed between Feodora and Mr. Walter King. Feodora had been unable to get two free seats for friends. She had most particularly wanted those seats, even if it should be necessary to pay for them. But she was too haughty to tell Mr. King that she would pay for them, and so she had herself run around, furs and pearls and ail—as de scribed by Rachel for the press—to implore Elaine to ajlot scats to her, even though all scats were sold. And Elaine, by methods known to box-office keepers only, had bestowed upon her the two desired seats, and Mr. Walter King not a penny (he wiser! Feodora, in the generosity of her impulsive, poetic heart, had not forgotten. "Shall you come?” asked Rachel, who evidently knew what was in the scrawled note. “I—l haven't a rag to wear.” an swered Elaine, much flustered. “Oh, stuff!” observed Rachel, sim ply. “You're always awfully well turned out. Everybody knows that.” "But evening wear ” protested Elaine, despite a secret mistrust of Rachel. “Oh, stuff!” Rachel repeated. Elaine could scarcely sleep that night. It was an incredible happen ing. She ’■ose early to look through her wardrobe. •4: # * * rpHE Fantasy Club, scene of Fco ”*■ dora’s party, was in Goodge street, off Tottenham Court road. Elainc v had some difficulty in finding it. since its portal was hidden at the end of a long covered passage and showed no signs of festivity, but she found Rachel Gordon in tho cloak room. Rachel gave the names of sundry high-brow novelists and painters and musicians who regularly frequented the club, and she said that in the art of turning night into day they were tho greatest experts in London. Rachel laughed at the nocturnal pre tentions of the more famous dancing clubs; she scorned them as bourgeois. Any one could join them; but, accord ing to Rachel, not any one could Join the Fantasy. You had to be some one or the approved friend of some one to be admitted to the Fantasy. Tho dancing room was large, low nnd very bare compared to the ornate interiors of the Rotunda. It had no decorations except electric lights in Chinese lanterns, and the costumes of the ladies. These decorations, how*- ever, were extremely effective. The room was full. Revelers were eating, drinking, dancing, chattering, laugh ing and giggling with much gusto. "There’s Feo’s table," said Rachel, pointing to the biggest and busiest table in the place, and led Elaine to ward it. Elaine was nervous. “How sweet of you!” the slim and gorgeous Feo greeted her. “How sweet you look! No! It Is more than sweet. I understand now when Carly does say how you, are cxotlque. It is so. Yes. Sit down. Have drink? Have chicken? Or soup? Yes. Soup first. Rachel, occupy yourself with Miss.” Feodora turned to two young men, who kissed her hand. Elaine listened eagerly to the con fused talk at the table, but, though all laughed or giggled, she heard nothing that struck her as amusing. No doubt the humor was being ac complished In French or Russian, of which languages Elaine had no knowledge. However, all the ladies looked either lovely or strange. She was still very shy, but she was mys THE SUNDAY STAR. WASHINGTON, D. C.. MARCH'23, 1924-PART 5. teriously happy, too, somehow up lifted. “Who is Carly?” she murmured to Rachel, and Rachel by a discreet turn of tho head indicated a young man who stood behind Feodora, against the wall. Elaine started and flushed. It was tho nightly visitant for whom she reserved stalls. The word exotic in the tiny roouui of Feodora had al ready exercised Elaine, who could not comprehend how anybody could regard her as deserving of sucii an adjective. That the nightly visitant should deem her exotic, and should have said so to a high goddess like Feodora, almost disturbed her while enchanting her. Rachel beckoned to the nightly visitant, who approached. "Mr. Lyeskov,” said Rachel. “Miss Edar. I think you have met.” She laughed. Mr. Lyeskov blushed. The next moment Elaine became aware that her hand had been kissed. A unique experience. Hand kissing was, of course, “foreign" and some what foolish, but it was surprisingly delicious, even flattering. So this was tho young man who, while paying for stalls from which to worship Feo dora, had found time to examine her self and to decide that she was ex otic. Yes, disturbing! Disturbing! He now asked hereto dance. Could she refuse? How ridiculous! Unfor tunately, in the dance she could not think of a single thing to say to him. He was a tine dancer, but scarcely cleverer as a talker than Elaine. They just danced, yielded themselves to the. music and the movement. It was exquisite. “You are a natural dancer. You have the gift,” ho remarked. She smiled. She knew that she was a natural dancer. She had no more learned to dance than she had learned to breathe; she rarely danced, and only in suburban resorts with one.or two dull acquaintances; yet she knetx all the steps and never erred, never hesitated. They danced two consecu tive dances. As he restored her to the table he asked if he might dance again with her very soon. Feodora called to him. “How did you get on?” Rachel de manded of Elaine, with a peculiar glance. “Oh, splendid! He's asked me for another dance.” “And did you refuse?” “Ought I?” “Don’t be silly. Can’t you see he’s mad about you? AVhy do you suppose he comes to get tickets off you every night? Why do you suppose he got Fco to ask you here tonight? And let me tell you. he may be a French* Russian. but he’s very serious and very rich. He didn't lose anything in the revolution, he didn't: Pity he's so shy, isn't it?” ** # * JPLAINE'S face burred again. The fact is, she was overwhelmed as she realized bit by bit that “Carly” came nightly to the Rotunda not to worship Feodora, but to worship her. It was staggering. She was glad when a male performer in Feodora's troupe invited her on to the floor. She did not care for his face, nor for bis manners, nor yet for his danejng— how different from “Carly's”!—but lie enabled her to escape from Rachel Gordon’s enigmatic scrutiny. As she went round the room with the pro fessional dancer something happened to her, and she half stumbled and turned wholly pale. It was a night of sensations, blushes and pallors, such a night as she had never before known. The dancer looked at his fal tering partner inquiringly, but said no word, and Elaine recovered her self. No one knew, no one could guess, what had happened to her. And after all it was naught. She had only caught sight of Ned seated at a table with another man. and he had seemed to be somewhat unprosperous and defiant in his shab by evening dress. And he looked older, thinner, worn. s Ned was the one man who bad en tered into the private life of hers, the existence of which none of the patrons of the Rotunda could visual ize. It was six years ago, when she was twenty-one, and before her con nection with the life of music halls. Ned was an advertising agent and lots of things besides; he had hadr a hand in promoting one or two of the earlier damcc clubs. He was up one month and down the next. He had gagagagaga -YOl ARE A NATURAL DANCER,” HE REMARKED. “YOU ILWE THE GIFT.’' i defects, but lie had made love to her.' i proposed to her, been accepted. She Save him all her heart; she learnt { rapturously to love love. The world became n *»gieal. The date of the ! wedding was fixed, > Then Ned came ore day and said j that candor was best, and that the j sole manly course was to confess to t her. What? What? That he had inis ■ taken his feelings. That he had found j that ho did not care for her “in that j way.” Whereas he did care for Alice ' "in that way.” and Alice caret! for I him "in that way.” That, of course, i he was hers to command, but would j it not be better, for her sake and for | the sake of them all. if she—he was j extremely sorry. He did not and | could not defend himself. Alice was a | friend of hers, had but a few months ■ before been congratulating her on j ber betrothal to nice Ned. Ned mar | ried Alice. And so that was that. Klainc's tragic grief softened grad ually into vague regret, and vague re j gret changed into a vague feeling that j perhaps she had done Well to los.- Ned. j Such stories lie buried in the memory j of numberless girls who go through J life apparently as though butter had i never melted In their mouths. And ! you dig up the stories with difficulty. ! with amazement. Well, she had | caught sight of Ned Ilaltright. • v v * <= j r T'Htl next minute his tab!* was i empty. She hoped he had not j seen her. and could not help thinking i that he had. fndoubtedly she had j had a shock. Hut after powdering her ! self anew and drinking some chant ! pagne, she put her hand once again | in the hand of Carty Hyeskov, and j felt his right hand lightly on her i back and resumed the dance with I him; the effects of the shack soon ■ disappeared. i She glimpsed herself in a mirror t and was satisfied with the vision. ’ Idle to deny that she was pretty, had j a good figure or that her frock was ! not smart! She was as presentable i as most, and more so than a lot of j them, though her only trinket was a i necklace of Chinese-dyed niother-of- I pearl. Carly's worship of her blos f somed like a flower. It was heavenly !to bo worshiped, to be able to confer a favor by merely consenting to ex- I ist. She had a sense of dominion which intoxicated. And then the hand, the colors, -the movement, the feeling of being surrounded by illus trious and witty artists! She won dered who was who! And Carly was so distinguished. His very shirt front was a miracle. And he was so defer ential. "May I ask where you live?" She told him Fulham. "1 suppose you would not let me drive you home in my car? ' *• Yes, she would; he was really too kind! Itornance! Uontancc! Soon she was thinking that Carly was unique in the whole world, so sympathetic he was! And lie worshiped her. He had gone off his head about her. Triumph! Power! Dizziness! It was silently establish d between them that they would dance every dance to gether. And they did. The Fantasy faded to a dim background for their emotions. And Klaine looked with pity at her past life at the horrid grind and daily work, at her loneli ness, because behind her counter she was nearly as lonely as a bus driver, and iit home in her rooms she was terribly lonely. How had she sup ported it? Could she possibly con tinue to support it? At 3 o'clock, when the gayety was at its apogee, she said she thought she must go home. Not that she w ant* d to go home or had any reason for going home. She wanted simply to command him, and to prove to the entire Fantasy flub that he was hers to command. She took leave _of Feodora, who. poured over her a delicious cascade of protests. And Carly did drive her to Fulham; Parson's Green it was. No little "liberties” in the large, smooth-gliding oar, such as are ex pected and condoned by the primmest maidens after such ecstasies, in such circumstances, at such an hour. Noth ing but ttie deepest. respect. Yes, he was "serious.” She leaned forward suddenly and tapped on the window. The car stopped. Mr. Lyeskov sprang to the pavement, handed her out, re moved his hat, kissed her hand and w-as richly rewarded by her smile under the lamp post. He waited un til she had found her latchkey and opened her door. Os course it was a poor little suburban house. But she knew that that didn’t matter. It was where she lived. PLAIXE went to bed in a state of , ecstatic, blissful excitement. No , sooner had she, laid herself down ! than she heard the prolonged trill of j the front-door bell in the back room. ; She occupied the two rooms which i constituted the third or lop floor of • (he obi house. In earlier days she had had only one room, but destiny | had been fairly kind to her. The front room was a sort of bed-sitting l i room; the hack was a kitchen-soul | lery-dining room. The floor was her ; home and held all that she possessed. ■ Compared to many young and aging women in her situation of life, she was affluent and of luxurious habit. 'Now, thcro wore four bolls on tlio front door, each labeled. Sometimes, ; and especially at night, visitors got confused and rang the wrong hell. Klaino thought that on this occasion the wrong hell had been rung. ‘'They'll have to keep on ringing," she said. After all, the bell did not make a great deal of noise. The bell continued to ring. “Nobody can possibly be wanting me at this time of night,” she said. Nevertheless, she put on her dress ing gown and opened the window and looked forth and down. But she could not see who was ringing because of the wide, leaded caves of the old fashioned porch, She shut the window and shut out the invading chill of the dark night. At length the per | sistent bell began to exasperate her | fatigued nerves, and with an annoyed, . apprehensive shrug she crept step by fereaking step all the way downstairs 1 and softly undid the front door. Ned Haltright was standing in the ! porch. She gave a start, and instinct i ively drew the thin peignoir more tightly round her shoulders. As she | did so she stiffened, looking at him. j She was affronted, angered, by this i inexcusable visitation. Nothing but 'sheer good nature prevented her , from shutting the door in Ned's face. “I saw you at the club " he com : menced. j "Not so loud, please!’ she stopped ; him in a sharp whisper, thinking of | her immaculate ’reputation in the i crowded house that so often buzzed with gossip. To have come home at j Ood knows what hour in a car was | bad enough, but to receive male call ‘ ers still later “I want to see you. I must talk to you,’’ Ned whispered plaintively. v "Not now,” she whispered, j “Yes, now.” She shook her head firmly. ' coming here now,” she whis pered, in still colder reproof. “And how on earth did you get l\cre at | this time?” "Walked,” he whispered. “Walked?” she whispered, j “Yes.” I He must certainly, have walked ; over six miles. The whispering i seemed to render them intimate in i spite of her aggrieved attitude to * ward him. It struck her as strange | and affecting that she had once been | his affianced sweetheart, that they f used to kiss each other with long i kisses and that now they were noth | ing to each bther. She made a sign ] for him to enter. She very cautiously ; closed the door. , “I’m on the top floor now,” she : murmured, scarcely audible. He nodded. The fan light over the i door let through the ray of the street j lamp, so that the first flight of stairs i was fairly plain. The higher flights j were dark. But Ned knew the stair case. Ned followed her on tiptoe, and I every now and tl\cn a stair creaked with a thunderous sound that no pru- I dence of tread could avoid. Blaine J had the horrid Illusion that behind i every door as they passed it women ! with slanderous tongues were greed j ily listening. ** * * I AT the summit of the perilous climb 1 she led him into the kitchen - | scullery-dining room, and found the ! matches, lit the gas, lit the gas stove. I She put her fingers to her lips. They | must still exist and communicate without sound. No sound-proof floors |ln that house! She motioned him to i the wicker easy chair. He sank into ! it. She' looked at him and looked ; round the room. Happily, the room j wa s very tidy and cosy. He was pale, j p'athetlc, with his pointed, exhausted, ; weak-charactered features. Ke wore ! a blue coat, strapped close at the waist and bulging out above and be low over his evening clothes, in his hand ! he held an ordinary bowler hat. No i style! What a contrast with Mr. Hyeskovl He had the air of defeat, even of bein;g a prisoner of war. And he had walked more than six miles in his madness. Without a word she turned away, Ut the gas ring and began to make I some tea. She had to do it from sim , pie humanity. And there she was j with him. sharing surreptitiously the room with him. Their tender inti macy emerged toward them out of the past, indestructible. Somehow, what had still was. How could she # treat him as a stranger? She could not. Moreover, she felt far superior to him in moral force; she felt, despite her resentment, almost j protective in a casual, condescending ,• way. She had the adoration of Carly j Lyeskov at her back. "Well?” she whispered. Ned gazed at the rug under his ! feet. Silence. Hiss of the gas stove; hiss of the pas rings; fizzing of the ' blue-yellow gas jet within its mantle. ■'Well, how's Alice?** she whisper j instly. in a rather indifferent, half - ! quizzing tone, as if saying: "Well, i you got your Alice. How does it work ; now you’ve had her six years?” | He whispered solemnly: "Poor Alice died two years ago. and i the baby’s two years old. Hadn't jou :beard?" i She shook her head. She could not I speak; her throat was suddenly eon -1 stricled: tears glittered in her eyes. At length she said: ‘‘l'm sorry to made it domestic. She stood near the fire in order to keep warm in her thin raiment. "Ellie," he said, rising vivaciously to put his cup and saucer on the table, and standing near to her. 'T’ve always been in love with you. I know there’s no excuse for me. I didn't treat you right. But there It Is. And when I saw you tonight ” He had raised his voifce. "Hsh!” she warned him. * t- * * | CHE spoke gently, keeping resent j ment out of her voice, partly be- I cause she was flattered by the reali j zation of her power over hfm—and | she had the same power over Carly j Eyeskov—and partly because he was j so wistful and she pftied him in his ' unhappiness. Nevertheless, in her I heart she was indignant. She did not see Elaine Edar aban- Idoning her independent situation for the status of the wife of a Ned Halt j asking Ned Haltright for money when she needed it, consider j ing his wishes in regard to her own ! conduct, sacrificing herself to the baby of the girl who had supplanted , her, sharing the material vicissitudes which must inevitably result from his character. He might love her, ad ! mire her, but that could not compcn i sate. Moreover, the whole idea was I absurd, monstrous. His suggestion amounted to effrontery. And Carly existed and worshiped. However, she offered no reasoned reply. Her daily traffic with all sorts of human beings had taught her when to argue and when not to argue. "Please don’t say any more,” she 1 murmured firmly. "You can’t hurst out like this.” "But I’ve had it on my mind *'••■ years, I tell you." "Please don't say any more " He seemed to wither. ’Til go. Better go. Sorry I spok. The wicker easy chair, empty, com plained with crcakings of the burden i which it had had to bear. The dawn i began delicately to announce itself j in silver-gray gleams through the in \ tersticc between the curtains of th I window. "You inusn't po yet,” Elaine win- I pered. i "Why not?” ; "Because it’s getting light, and th* I people on the first floor tviil be about j and 1 can't have a man, specially ii evening dn-ss. leaving my rooms at | this tint*-. Bffidot He re's no buss f ’or trams yet. You must wait tiii j every one’s up and people have begun i to go up and down stairs, and you J must cover up your shirt front prop- I eriy. Then you eau slip out ” Sh ,’ whispered soberly, with the sagacity j of a young woman who lias iearnt I her world. She added: "I shall lie j down.” I’m frightfully tired, and you | must he, too. ’ Try to sleep in the | chair.” ; She left him for the front room, jand locked the door and dropped on | her bed. She was indeed exhausted, j but she could not sleep. Her eyes 1 burned. She reflected that dancers were still dancing at the Fantasy Then she slept. When she woke the alarm clock, i which never alarmed, showed the • hour of 3