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“Put them down here,” said Josie. The men thumped the boxes down on the long table. Josie’s fingers were already at the strings. She opened the first box, emptied its contents, tossed them aside, passed on to the second. Her hands busied themselves among the silks and broadcloth of this; then on to the third and last box. McCabe and his men, with scenery and furniture still to unload and store, turned to go. Their footsteps echoed hollowly as they clattered down the worn old stairway. Josie snapped the cord that bound the third box. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. She turned it upside down. Then she pawed it over. Then she went back to the contents of the first two boxes, clawing about among the limp garments with which the table was strewn. She was breathing quickly. Suddenly: “It isn’t here!” she cried. “It isn’t here!” She turned and flew to the stairway. The voices of the men came up to her. She leaned far over the railing. “McCabe! McCabe!”

“Yeh? What do you want?”

“The black velvet dress! The black velvet dress! It isn’t there.”

“Oh, yeh. That’s all right. Haddon, she’s got a bug about that dress, and she says she wants to take it to London with her, to use on the opening night. She says if she wears a new one that first night, the play’ll be a failure. Some temperament, that girl, since she’s got to be a star!”

Josie stood clutching the railing of the stairway. Her disappointment was so bitter that she could not weep. She felt cheated, outraged. She was frightened at the intensity of her own sensations. “She might have let me have it,” she said aloud in the dim half light of the hallway. “She’s got everything else in the world. She might have let me have that.”

Then she went back into the big, bright sewing room. “Splendour” ran three years in London.

During those three years she saw Sid Hahn only three or four times. He spent much of his time abroad. Whenever opportunity presented itself she would say: “Is ‘Splendour’ still playing in London?”

“Still playing.”

The last time Hahn, intuitive as always, had eyed her curiously. “You seem to be interested in that play.”

“Oh, well,” Josie had replied with assumed carelessness, “it being in Atlantic City just when I had my accident, and then meeting you through that, and all, why, I always kind of felt a personal interest in it.” …

At the end of three years Sarah Haddon returned to New York with an English accent, a slight embonpoint, and a little foreign habit of rushing up to her men friends with a delighted exclamation (preferably French) and kissing them on both cheeks. When Josie Fifer, happening back stage at a rehearsal of the star’s new play, first saw her do this a grim gleam came into her eyes.

“Bernhardt’s the only woman who can spring that and get away with it,” she said to her assistant. “Haddon’s got herself sized up wrong. I’ll gamble her next play will be a failure.”

And it was.

The scenery, props, and costumes of the London production of “Splendour” were slow in coming back. But finally they did come. Josie received them with the calmness that comes of hope deferred. It had been three years since she last saw the play. She told herself, chidingly, that she had been sort of foolish over that play and this costume. Her recent glimpse of Haddon had been somewhat disillusioning. But now, when she finally held the gown itself in her hand–the original “Splendour” second-act gown, a limp, soft black mass: just a few yards of worn and shabby velvet–she found her hands shaking. Here was where she had hugged the toy dog to her breast. Here where she had fallen on her knees to pray before the little shrine in her hotel room. Every worn spot had a meaning for her. Every mark told a story. Her fingers smoothed it tenderly.