“But Mr. Potter, I—”
“Don't get it into your head that I am too easy, Packer! You think you've got a luxurious thing of it here, with me, but—” He concluded with an ominous shake of the head in lieu of words, then returned to the centre of the stage. “Are we to be all day getting on with this rehearsal?”
Packer flew to the table and seized the manuscript he had left there. “All ready, sir! 'Nothing in this world but one thing can defeat'—and so on, so on. All ready, sir!”
The star made no reply but to gaze upon him stonily, a stare which produced another dreadful silence. Packer tried to smile, a lamentable sight.
“Something wrong, Mr. Potter?” he finally ventured, desperately.
The answer came in a voice cracking with emotional strain: “I wonder how many men bear what I bear? I wonder how many men would pay a stage-manager the salary I pay, and then do all his work for him!”
“Mr. Potter, if you'll tell me what's the matter,” Packer quavered; “if you'll only tell me—”
“The understudy, idiot! Where is the understudy to read Miss Lyston's part? You haven't got one! I knew it! I told you last week to engage an understudy for the women's parts, and you haven't done it. I knew it, I knew it! God help me, I knew it!”
“But I did, sir. I've got her here.”
Packer ran to the back of the stage, shouting loudly: “Miss-oh, Miss—I forget-your-name! Understudy! Miss—”