Hith exthact wordth!
Gabrielle.
With a hollow laugh. Ha, ha, ha! Resuming her former attitude. As I was remarking, I’m a mass of inconsistency. On the stage the embodiment of elfish fun——
De Castro.
That wath in the Mail.
Gabrielle.
Nodding. In the Mail. Off the stage, I’m a sufferer from what’s called the artistic temperature—no—temperament——
De Castro.
Uncomfortably, patting her shoulder. Po’ little girl; po’ little girl!
Gabrielle.