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“I came over here yesterday to look at some threshin’ machines. Scott Brothers are sellin’ out and Dad got ssss1 word they’re lettin’ their stuff go dirt cheap, so he sent me to take a squint. By Jiminy, I almost dropped dead when I went past the theater this afternoon and saw your picture. Maybe I didn’t go right up to the girl in the ticket box and tell her I was an old friend of yours!”

Elizabeth’s tongue went into her cheek. “And what did she say?”

“Asked why I didn’t come in to see you perform to-night and I said I would. But first I made up my mind I’d let you know I was here. Say—what is it you do?”

“Imitations.”

“Who do you imitate?”

“Oh, Ethel Barrymore and Elsie Janis and Eddie Foy and George Cohan and Nazimova—” She reeled off a list, most of them strange to him.

“I’ll bet you’re great. Gee—Lizzie—but you’re pretty.” His round face went scarlet as the words popped out and he shifted uneasily under the loose ill-fitting coat that hung from his broad shoulders.

She met his wide-eyed admiration with a smile. “It’s the paint, Lou.”