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CHAPTER II

THE ENGLISH ACTRESS

Mrs. Dainton, the great English actress, had the artistic temperament. Mrs. Dainton had nerves. Mrs. Dainton had many other things which an imported foreign star anxious to create a sensation might be expected to have. For instance, she had Fuzzy-Wuzzy, the petite Pomeranian poodle which never left her night or day. She had her personal manager, Victor Weldon, to act as valet for the dog by daytime, and attend to occasional business details. There were also two maids—Lizette, the French maid, whose duties were of a personal nature at hotels; and Johanna, the German maid, who assisted at the theater. Furthermore, there was a footman whose special province it was to precede Mrs. Dainton at all times and make sure that no rude persons caused her the slightest annoyance. In the trail of this imposing procession, as a rule, could be found Sanford Gordon.

Once Mrs. Dainton had been a great beauty. The daughter of an obscure country curate in her native England, conditions made it necessary for her to support herself. Naturally, as so many of her sex have done, she gravitated toward the stage, which always beckons most alluringly to those who have beauty, youth and talent. Too often it is but the Lorelei by which are wrecked the disappointed hopes of those not fitted by nature or temperament for the hardships that must be encountered, but with Mrs. Dainton the struggle for success had been aided materially by the beauty and charm with which she was richly endowed. Returning to America after a number of years—for her first tour of this country after her London triumphs had been like a whirlwind—Mrs. Dainton had found herself still viewed with interest, still admired for the great beauty which had now reached its maturity, and still peevish and petulant as a result of the fulfillment of her every slightest wish and whim. Her little eccentricities were always excused by her personal manager as "Madame's temperament." If an inquisitive newspaper man wanted to know why Madame had held the curtain until nine o'clock—when in reality she had merely motored into the country too far and had been careless of the time—Victor would explain: "Ah, Madame has been visiting some sick children. She is always so generous, so considerate." Long experience had made Victor invaluable. His it was to receive the blame whenever anything went wrong, to excuse to the utmost the weaknesses of the English actress whenever, as they often did, her whims seemed likely to affect the box-office receipts.

Consequently, when Mrs. Dainton and her entourage, passing out on their way to Sanford Gordon's new ninety horse-power touring car which was drawn up before the hotel, entered the sun parlor, it didn't in the least surprise the amiable and considerate Victor to have the English actress pause, sniff, stamp her foot, and protest.

"Some one has been smoking here," she insisted shrilly. "Victor, send for the manager! The same thing happened yesterday."

"I have already complained once—" began Weldon, shifting the Pomeranian from the left arm to the right.

"No matter—complain again. If we cannot have satisfaction, complain a third and a fourth time. That is what hotel managers are here for—to listen to complaints."

Sanford Gordon, the least obtrusive figure of the little cavalcade, and the one who, for personal reasons, least desired a scene which might find its way into the newspapers, stepped forward to calm the irate actress. Once, rumor said, Sanford Gordon had been able to calm her impetuous spirit, but that had been in days long gone by. Then he had chartered a private car to be near her on her travels, he had risked an open scandal by his devotion to the celebrated beauty. Now things were different. Not only did he not relish the idea of an altercation with a hotel management, always fraught with sensational newspaper possibilities which his smart fellow club members in New York might turn into a jibe or a joke, but his influence with Mrs. Dainton herself seemed to be waning.

"Really, my dear Mrs. Dainton," he began softly, "what does it matter? We do not intend to remain here more than a moment."

Perhaps for some hidden reason of her own, Mrs. Dainton seemed to find pleasure in turning upon him suddenly.

"How do you know how long I may stay here? Perhaps I may wish to spend the afternoon here," she declared. "Some one has been smoking here, smoking vile, filthy cigars. Such things affect my voice. And what could I do without my voice? I couldn't act. I should be penniless. Victor, you must not let this happen again."

"I will do my best, Mrs. Dainton," replied Victor.

"Marky" Zinsheimer, covertly throwing away his cigar, rose and bowed before the English actress, while the footman stared in surprise, and Victor seemed aghast at the presumption.

"I beg pardon, Mrs. Dainton, it was I who smoked," said "Marky."

Mrs. Dainton surveyed him curiously through her lorgnette.

"Indeed! You should have known better. I really think you had better complain to the manager, Victor, about this person."

"My name is Zinsheimer," bowed "Marky," smiling amiably. "Well-known first-nighter in New York—go to all the theaters—maybe you've heard of me. I'm known everywhere along Broadway. Perhaps you may remember I bought the first box for your opening night last season. Yes, paid three hundred dollars for it, too," he added proudly, as an afterthought.

"Really?" repeated Mrs. Dainton, languidly. "Such things do not interest me in the least. I never think of the sordid details of business—I live only for my art."

She passed him by as though he were merely a part of the furniture. "Marky" gazed at her furtively, but slowly his composure deserted him. He backed away carefully from this wonderful creation.

"She lives only for her art, eh?" he murmured softly. "I got you—you'll die young," he added to himself, as he drew another cigar from his pocket, ostentatiously lighted it, and strolled out onto the veranda.

"Victor, is the motor here?" demanded Mrs. Dainton.

Victor shifted the Pomeranian to the other arm, stepped to the door of the sun parlor, and reported that the chauffeur seemed to be tinkering with the car.

"And must I breathe this horrible atmosphere while that lazy chauffeur pretends to fix the car? You must discharge him and get another."

"But I say," broke in Gordon, "the man's the best driver I ever had. I brought him from France."

"I don't care if you brought him from Hindoostan," retorted Mrs. Dainton, coldly. "When I say I will not use him after to-day, I mean it." Reaching two daintily gloved hands toward the Pomeranian, snugly ensconced under Victor's arm, the actress grasped its little, fuzzy head, pressed it to her cheek, and smothered it with kisses. "And my poor 'ittle Fuzzy-Wuzzy. Must 'oo breafe ze awful smoke, too, bress um baby heartsums. Ums 'ittle Fuzzy-Wuzzy is mamma's pet, isn't ums?"

"The motor is ready now, Madame," ventured Victor stolidly.

Mrs. Dainton handed the dog to Johanna.

"Wrap the precious darling up warmly, Johanna," she said. "You ride with me, Victor. Lizette, my cloak. Crawley, you ride in front with the chauffeur and keep any dust from entering Fuzzy's eyes."

As the procession started toward the waiting car, Gordon, who followed close by the English actress, inquired:

"Where shall we go to-day?"

"Really, I don't think