By this time a number of the characters appeared from their dressing rooms, and Dorothy stepped up to a girl with an enormous hat on her head, and a pair of very small shoes in her hand. As the girl sank gracefully down on an upturned box to adjust her ties, and, incidentally, to get a breath of air after the atmosphere of the stuffy dressing room, Dorothy asked timidly:
“Can you tell me where Miss Riceman’s dressing room is?”
“That first door to the left,” answered the girl, tilting her big hat back far enough to allow a glimpse of her questioner.
Dorothy stepped up to the door. Surely Tavia could not be there! Dorothy’s heart beat furiously. She was trembling so she could hardly knock, but managed to give a faint tap.
“Miss Dale,” answered Dorothy mechanically, feeling as if she would almost be willing to give up her search for Tavia if she could be well out of the place. There was a moment’s wait and then the door swung open.
“Come in,” invited the girl from within the little room. “Oh, you’re Miss—let me see—I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name—you’re from the _Leader_, aren’t you?”
“No,” replied Dorothy, breathing easier, now that she found herself alone with a girl—a simple human being just like any other girl. “I am looking for—for a friend,” she went on, stammeringly, “and I thought perhaps you could tell me—”
“You poor child,” interrupted Miss Riceman whose toilet was so unceremoniously interrupted “just come in and sit down on this trunk. Then let me get you something. You actually look ill.”
“I’m just—just a little fri—frightened,” Dorothy gasped, for indeed she was now feeling queer and dizzy, and it was all getting black before her eyes.
“Nettie!” called the actress, “get me some cold water and call to the girls in the ‘Lair’ and see if they have made coffee. Hurry now,” to the woman who helped the actresses dress. Then she offered Dorothy a bottle of smelling salts. “Take a whiff of that,” she said kindly. “The woman will be back soon with some ice water. I’m sorry you’re not well. Was it the smell from the gas lights? I don’t see why they make us poor actresses put up with them, when they have electric light in front. It’s abominable! And the smoke from the powder they use to make the lightning! It fairly chokes me,” and she blew aside a curling wreath of vapor that sifted in through the door. A moment later the woman handed in a pitcher of water and a glass. “No coffee?” in answer to some message. “Well, all right.”