“Is it necessary for an actor to have actually died before he can perfectly represent a death scene?” he asked.
She laughed, and a faint blush rose to her face.
“Perhaps dying isn’t so important as falling in love, Jeffrey; but it seems to me that one must have loved—and lost—before one can play Juliet, and I’ve done neither.”
He made no response to this piece of speculation; but after some minutes’ silence he said:
“Do some of it, Doris.”
She started slightly, as if he had awakened her from a dream, and recited some of the lines.
The old man watched her, and listened anxiously at first, then with rapt attention, as, losing herself in the part, she grew more emphatic and spontaneous; but suddenly she stopped.
“It will not do, Jeffrey, will it?” she said, quickly. “There—there is no heart in it, is there? Don’t tell me it’s all right!” she pleaded. “I always like the truth from you—at least!”
“And you get it,” he said, grimly. “No, it is not all right. You look——” he stopped—“and your voice is musical and thrilling, but—there is something wanting yet. Do not give it up—it will all come right. To-morrow with the lights and the people—there will be a full house, crammed—the feeling you want will come, and I shall be satisfied.”
He rose and rolled up the paper.