The scales loosened a trifle over Mr. Daly's eyes at the last rehearsal but one. He was down in the orchestra speaking to the leader when I came to the end of the act, and the words: "The mother whom I have insulted? That young girl, then, is my sister—the sister whose happiness I have stolen? whose future I have shattered? What—is—there—left—for—me to live for?"
Mr. Daly glanced up, and said, sharply: "What's that? 'er, Miss Morris, what are you going to do there as the curtain falls? I—I haven't noticed that speech before. Go back a bit, Mr. Fisher, Miss Morant, back to the Count's entrance; let me hear that again."
We went over the scene again: "H-e-m-m!" said Mr. Daly; "you've not answered my question, Miss Morris. What do you do at the fall of the curtain?"
"Nothing, sir," I answered, "just stare dazedly at space, I think—swaying a little perhaps."
"I want you to fall!" he declared.
"Oh!" I exclaimed, "please, don't you think that would be rather melodramatic? If she could stand while receiving that awful shock about her mother's shame she would hardly fall afterward, from mere horror of her own thoughts?"
"I know all that, but let me tell you there's always great effect in a falling body. At any rate you can sink into a chair—and so get the suggestion of collapse."
"There is no chair," I answered, cheerfully.
"Well," he replied, testily, "there can be one, I suppose. Here, boy, bring a large chair and place it behind Miss Morris."
"Mr. Daly," I argued, "if I fall heavily, as I must, for effect, the chair will jump, and that will be funny—see."