"Good!" He offered his hand frankly, subjected hers to a firm, cool
pressure, and moved back to his study door. "Good night."
She whispered her response, and ran upstairs to her room, almost beside
herself with delight.
It was all right!
Best of all, the advances had come from him; he it was who had sued for
pardon where the fault was hers--clear proof that he thought enough of
her to wish to retain her friendship!
With a glad and comforted heart she settled down to attack anew the
vexatious problem of her rôle in "The Jade God."
But for all her worry and good will, the next morning's rehearsal of her
scenes passed off in the same terrible silence as had marked Monday's.
And in the same afternoon the storm broke.
After plodding through her first scene, Joan was about to go off when
Wilbrow called her.
"Miss Thursday," he said quietly, "one of three things has got to
happen--_now_: either you'll follow my instructions, or you'll quit, or
I will. I've told you what I want so many times that I'm tired repeating
myself. Now we're going to go over that scene again and again, if it
takes all afternoon to get what I'm after. _But_, before we start, I
will ask you to bear one thing in mind: this isn't an ingénue part;
there's no excuse for acting it like a petulant school-girl. Even pretty
stenographers are business-like in real life--sometimes--and we're
trying to secure some semblance of real life in this production. In
other words, I want you to forget Billie Burke and try to act like a
human being who's a little sore on her job and her employer, but not
sore enough to chuck it just yet. Now, if you please--begin right at the
beginning."
For an instant Joan stood hesitant, on the verge of refusing. There
seemed to be no satisfying this man: he either didn't or wouldn't
understand; she tried desperately to please him--and her sole reward was
to be held up to the derision of the entire company! It was
intolerable! And of a sudden she hated Wilbrow with every atom of her
being. But ... if she were to talk back or refuse to go on, Matthias
would be forfeited from her life.
She choked down her chagrin, resisted the temptation to wither Wilbrow
with a glare, and sulkily resumed her place in the chair beside another
chair that was politely presumed to be her typewriter desk.
At once the fat boy whom she detested crossed the indefinite line
dividing the scene from "off-stage," and leering insolently, spoke the
opening line of the play. Seething with indignation, the girl looked up
and in cutting accents shot her reply at him. She was pleased to
surprise a look of dumb amazement in his eyes. At all events, she had
succeeded in letting _him_ know just how she felt toward him! And this
success inspired her to further efforts. She rattled through the
remainder of the scene with the manner of a youthful termagant.