Nancy Olden! Think of that, Mag! I receive him all in my Charity
rig, and in Obermuller's office, and he asks me silly questions
and I tell him a lot of nonsense, but some truths, too, about the
Cruelty. Fancy, he didn't know what the Cruelty was! S. P. C. C.,
he calls it. And all the time we talked a long-haired German
artist he had brought with him was sketching Nance Olden in
different poses. Isn't that the limit?

What d'ye think Tom Dorgan'd say to see half a page of Nancy
Olden in the X-Ray? Wouldn't his eyes pop? Poor old Tom! . . . No
danger--they won't let him have the papers. . . . My old Tommy!

What is it, Mag? Oh, what was I saying? Yes--yes, how it looks.

Well, it looks as though the Trust--yes, the big and mighty T.
T.--short for Theatrical Trust, you innocent--had heard of that
same Nance Olden you read about in the papers. For one night last
week, when I'd just come of and the house was yelling and
shouting behind me, Obermuller meets me in the wings and trots me
of to his private office.

"What for?" I asked him on the way.

"You'll find out in a minute. Come on."

I pulled up my stocking and followed. You know I wear it in that
act without a garter, and it's always coming down the way yours
used to, Mag. Even when it doesn't come down I pull it up, I'm so
in the habit of doing it.