Mildred had often been behind the scenes in her amateur
theatrical days; but even if she had not, she would have
known where she was. Crossley called, ``Moldini!
Moldini!''
The name was caught up by other voices and
repeated again and again, more and more remotely. A
moment, and a small dark man with a superabundance
of greasy dark hair appeared. ``Miss Gower,'' said
Crossley, ``this is Signor Moldini. He will play your
accompaniments.'' Then to the little Italian, ``Piano
on the stage?''
``Yes, sir.''
To Mildred with a smile, ``Will you try?''
She bent her head. She had no voice--not for song,
not for speech, not even for a monosyllable.
Crossley took Moldini aside where Mildred could not
hear. ``Mollie,'' said he, ``this girl crept up on me,
and I've got to give her a trial. As you see, she's a
lady, and you know what they are.''
``Punk,'' said Moldini.
Crossley nodded. ``She seems a nice sort, so I want
to let her down easy. I'll sit back in the house, in the
dark.
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