Broadway.

"My dear Tootles, what's happened?"

She turned to him and clutched his arm. Tears welled up into her
eyes, and her red lips began to tremble. "What did I look like?" she
demanded.

"Splendid!"

"Didn't I get every ounce of comedy out of my two scenes in Act
One?"

"Every ounce."

"I know I did. Even the stage hands laughed, and if you can do that
there's no argument. And didn't my number go over fine? Wasn't it
the best thing in the act? I don't care what you say. I know it was.
Even the orchestra wanted it over again."

"But it was," said Martin, "and I heard one of the authors say that
it would be the hit of the piece."

"Oh, Martin, I've been sweating blood for this chance for five
years, and I'm not going to get it. I'm not going to get it. I wish
I was dead." She put her arms against the wall and her face down on
her arms and burst into an agony of tears.

Martin was moved. This plucky, struggling, hardworking atom of a
remorseless world deserved a little luck for a change. Hitherto it