"Ah!" he broke in, "then in a measure the fault is mine, since worry and trouble kept me away from the green-room. But Bènot should have made introductions in my place—and—well, I'm ashamed of the women! cats! cats!"
"Oh, no!" I laughed, "not yet, surely not yet!"
Suddenly he returned to the part: "You will tell the people that you were to play Anne in the first place."
"But, Mr. Daly," I cried, "the whole company saw me receive the part of Blanche."
He gnawed at the end of his mustache in frowning thought. "One woman to whom it belongs refuses the part," he said; "another woman, who can't play it, demands it from me, and I want to stop her mouth by making her believe the part was given to you before I knew her desire for it—do you see?"
Yes, with round-eyed astonishment, I saw that this almost tyrannically high-handed ruler had someone to placate—someone to deceive.
"You will therefore tell the people you received Anne last night."
I was silent, hot, miserable.
"Do you hear?" he asked, angrily. "Good God! everything goes wrong. The idiot that was to dramatize the story of "Man and Wife" for me has failed in his work; the play is announced, and I have been up all night writing and arranging a last act for it myself. If Miss Davenport thinks she has been refused Anne, she will take her revenge by refusing to play Blanche, and the cast is so full it will require all my people—you must say you received the part last night!"
"Mr. Daly," I said, "won't you please trust to my discretion. I don't like lying, even for my daily bread, but if silence is golden, a discreet silence is away above rubies."