“Fine! Excellent!” she cried. “It takes a clever actress to make me weep. But you, my dear Miss Fielding, you bring out the best that is in us. You stir the imagination, the emotions, like skilled fingers on the sensitive strings of a harp. You are wonderful, wonderful, my dear Ruth Fielding. I have never worked under a director just like you.”
Athrill with a fine elation, Ruth turned and grasped the actress’ hands in both her own.
“And to-morrow comes your own big act!” she cried. “The most dramatic, the climactic scene of the play. I am looking forward to that!”
“And I!” said Edith Lang softly.
It was only after the day’s work was done that Ruth’s mood became a little less exuberant.
She and Tom were walking slowly toward the inn, both thoughtful and unusually quiet.
“That was a bold move of yours,” Tom said gravely—“sending Joe Rumph away.”
“He resigned,” Ruth countered. Then as Tom made no remark: “Just the same, I am sure I did the right thing, Tom.”
“So am I, as far as the filming of the play is concerned,” Tom replied loyally. “I ought to know enough to trust your judgment by this time, Ruth. It isn’t that. I was just thinking that Joe Rumph might make an unpleasant enemy.”
“Oh, Tommy,” Ruth was suddenly weary and plaintive, “haven’t we enough enemies, already? Please, please, don’t borrow trouble—or a new enemy!”