Counting ten slowly proved to be the proper deference to the smile, and Miss Malone was allowed to come down the stage and complete, undisturbed, her ingenue request to know what the two good people were conspiring about. Thereafter the rehearsal went on in a strange, unreal peace like that of a prairie noon in the cyclone season.
“Notice that girl?” old Tinker muttered, as Wanda Malone finished another ingenue question with a light laugh, as commanded by her manuscript. “She's frightened but she's steady.”
“What girl?” Canby was shampooing himself feverishly and had little interest in girls. “I made it a disagreeable character because—”
“I mean the one he's letting out on—Malone,” said Tinker. “Didn't you notice her voice? Her laugh reminds me of Fanny Caton's—and Dora Preston's—”
“Who?” Canby asked vaguely.
“Oh, nobody you'd remember; some old-time actresses that had their day—and died—long ago. This girl's voice made me think of them.”
“She may, she may,” said Canby hurriedly. “Mr. Tinker, the play is ruined. He's tangled the whole act up so that I can't tell what it's about myself. Instead of Roderick Hanscom's being a man that people dislike for his conceit and selfishness he's got him absolutely turned round. I oughtn't to allow it—but everything's so different from what I thought it would be! He doesn't seem to know I'm here. I came prepared to read the play to the company; I thought he'd want me to.”
“Oh, no,” said Tinker. “He never does that.”
“Why not?”
“Wastes time, for one thing. The actors don't listen except when their own parts are being read.”