When she had reached the theater and turned aside into the short alley leading to the stage entrance, she couldn’t resist taking one last look in back of her. He was still in sight, still stalking after her down the street. She smiled a pleasant good-evening to the doorman sitting out in the alley in his chair and went inside. She wondered if he’d come right up to the stage-door after her, and wondered what he’d do then, when he got to where he couldn’t go any farther. She lingered inside, in the passageway leading to the dressing-rooms, for a moment or two, standing where she could command a view of the stage-door without being seen herself. In a minute or two her vigil was rewarded. He came straight down the alley without any loss of time, stopped beside the doorman, and then remained there chatting with him. “Of all the nerve!” She turned and went back to her dressing-room. She should have been scowling deeply about this whole thing; she may have been, but if she was the scowl looked more like a gratified smirk than anything else.
“Decent?” Her partner came into the room while she was doing her hair up. “What are you so nervous about?” he asked after watching her for a moment. She turned toward him. “Listen, will you do something for me? A fresh sailor, no less, followed me all the way to the theater tonight. He’s out there now. Step out there and tell him where to get off, will you? I don’t want to have to run into him again after the show.”
He gave her an amazed, almost incredulous look; then he turned and went out. When he had come back again, “What was the big idea?” she asked. But the triumphant look in her eyes belied the indignation in her words.
He held out a small, leather-bound book toward her. “Oh, he didn’t mean to insult you,” he reported, “He told me to tell you that. He was trying to get up courage enough to ask you to sign his autograph-album. That was all. His hobby is celebrities’ signatures, and he recognized you—”
The book struck the opposite wall with a violent smack. A tin of cold-cream and a hair-brush followed in quick succession. Her partner retreated hastily as far as the door and stood there, scratching his head. “What’s the matter, Lizzie?” he asked, mystified, “You act sorer now than you were before, when you thought he was trying to insult you.”