The other woman laughed.
"Oh, I see! Advertising her 'farewell to the stage.' I daresay she will take her time over it."
Lambert turned on her.
"Be quiet!" he exclaimed irritably.
Again she shrugged. "It's our call directly."
"I can't help that. MacBride must go on for me."
He picked up a towel and was about to remove the grease paint from his face, but stopped at the ejaculation that broke from her.
"You can't possibly go to-night," she burst out. "Evidently these people"—she made an impatient gesture that indicated Alexandra—"don't know that it's the last night of your season, and that you're booked to leave for America in three days' time. Or probably they don't care. To think of throwing up your part at a moment's notice and letting the curtain come down in your absence is madness. You must stop for your speech. If you want to you can go first thing to-morrow, though you'll probably have a wire by then to say your wife's better and won't see you for worlds!"
A boy put his head in at the door.
"Your call, sir," he announced.