Mr. Regan shook his hairless head. "He's dippy on 'types.' This
show's full of 'em: real blondes, real brunettes, bold and dashin'
ones, tall and statelies, blushers, shrinkers, laughers, and
sadlings. He won't stand for make-up; he wants 'em with the dew
on. They've got to look natural for Bergman. That's some of 'em
now." He nodded toward a group of young, fresh-cheeked girls who
had entered the stage door and were hurrying down the hall. "There
ain't a Hepnerized ensemble in the whole first act, and they wear
talcum powder instead of tights. It's dimples he wants, not
'fats.' How them girls stand the draught I don't know. It would
kill an old-timer."

"I've come to interview one of Bergman's 'types'; that new beauty,
Miss Knight. Is she here yet?"

"Sure; her and the back-drop, too. She carries the old woman for
scenery." Mr. Regan took the caller's card and shuffled away,
leaving Pope to watch the stream of performers as they entered and
made for their quarters. There were many women in the number, and
all of them were pretty. Most of them were overdressed in the
extremes of fashion; a few quietly garbed ladies and gentlemen
entered the lower dressing-rooms reserved for the principals.

It was no novel sight to the reviewer, whose theatrical
apprenticeship had been thorough, yet it never failed to awaken
his deepest cynicism. Somewhere within him was a puritanical
streak, and he still cherished youthful memories. He reflected now
that it was he who had laid the foundation for the popularity of
the girl he had come to interview; for he had picked her out of