She had seen him in tantrums
before, but always there had been a judicious reserving
of part of the truth. Instead of resenting, instead of
flashing eye or quivering lips, Mildred sat down and with
white face and dazed eyes stared straight before her.
Jennings raved and roared himself out. As he came
to his senses from this debauch of truth-telling his first
thought was how expensive it might be. Thus, long
before there was any outward sign that the storm had
passed, the ravings, the insults were shrewdly tempered
with qualifyings. If she kept on catching these colds,
if she did not obey his instructions, she might put off
her debut for years--for three years, for two years at
least. And she would always be rowing with managers
and irritating the public--and so on and on. But
the mischief had been done. The girl did not rouse.
``No use to go on to-day,'' he said gruffly--the
pretense at last rumblings of an expiring storm.
``Nor any other day,'' said Mildred.
She stood and straightened herself.
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