The curtain’d sleep; now witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate’s offerings, and withered murder,
Alarum’d by his sentinel—”
“No, no, no!” moaned the anguished voice of Stratford Keane, further off in the hollow of the empty auditorium. “I can’t stand it! Belden, you’re beating those lines with a club! A bludgeon!”
“Oh, dry up,” Iris Freeman said, from the stage. “I think Mark is doing wonderfully.”
Stratford Keane’s groan reverberated like the plaint of a wounded bull.
“You think! Ye gods, what have I done to deserve this? I, Stratford Keane, who have striven all my life to learn understanding and patience! Even Job was at last tried too far, and I am not Job... You think Belden is doing wonderfully.
“That is too much. You may direct this play, Miss Freeman.” His voice was louder but still further off. “I resign. I’m through!”
In the distance a door slammed.
There was an uneasy silence on the stage for a few moments, and then Iris Freeman said with weary disgust, “Oh, for crying out loud! Again?”