Mr. Mackwayte thought how singularly graceful she
looked as she stood, very slim, looking at him whimsically across
the dinner-table, the receiver in her hand.
Then a strange thing happened. Barbara quickly put the receiver
down on the desk and clasped her hands together, her eyes opened
wide in amazement.
"Daddy," she cried, "it's the Palaceum... the manager's office...
they want you urgently! Oh, daddy, I believe it is an
engagement!"
Mr. Mackwayte rose to his feet in agitation, a touch of color
creeping into his gray cheeks.
"Nonsense, my dear!" he answered, "at this time of night! Why,
it's past eight... their first house is just finishing... they
don't go engaging people at this time of day... they've got other
things to think of!"
He went over to the desk and picked up the receiver.
"Mackwayte speaking!" he said, with a touch of stage majesty in
his voice.
Instantly a voice broke in on the other end of the wire, a
perfect torrent of words.
"Mackwayte? Ah! I'm glad I caught you at home. Got your props
there? Good. Hickie of Hickie and Flanagan broke his ankle during
their turn at the first house just now, and I want you to take
their place at the second house. Your turn's at 9.40: it's a
quarter past eight now: I'll have a car for you at your place at
ten to nine sharp.
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