Mildred's face grew red with white streaks across it, like
the prints of a lash. The subtlest feature of his
malevolence had been that, whereas on other days he had
taken her aside to criticize her, on this day he had
spoken out--gently, deprecatingly, but frankly--before
the whole company. Never had Mildred Gower
been so sad and so blue as she was that day and that
night. She came to the rehearsal the following day with
a sore throat. She sang, but her voice cracked on the
high notes. It was a painful exhibition. Her fellow
principals, who had been rather glad of her set-back
the day before, were full of pity and sympathy. They
did not express it; they were too kind for that. But
their looks, their drawing away from her--Mildred
could have borne sneers and jeers better. And Ransdell
was SO forbearing, SO gentle.
Her voice got better, got worse. Her acting
remained mediocre to bad. At the fifth rehearsal after
the break with the stage-director, Mildred saw Crossley
seated far back in the dusk of the empty theater.
Pages:
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486