IV
It was past one o'clock. For over two hours without a pause the chorus had been going through their "business" in the new play with the reiteration that exasperates the teacher and the taught. The girls had relapsed into sulkiness, the stage-manager's temper was ruffled. Even the pianist in the O.P. corner by the footlights felt the reaction. His hands rested on the keys without energy.
Powell, the stage-manager, faced the forty girls standing in a semi-circle, three-deep. The majority of them were dressed in the ultra-fashionable style of the moment, some very expensively, a few with taste. The exceptions were Maggy and Alexandra. He knew they were all tired and rebellious; but he was concerned only with their recalcitrant feet.
"Now then, girls. Once more."
The pianist's hands came down heavily on the opening chords of a dance movement.
"La-la-la—da-di-dum—point! Step it out. Don't mince!"
A tall girl, gorgeously arrayed, brought the dance to a stop by leaving her position in the front row.
"I'm not going to stick here all day," she announced defiantly. "I'm lunching with my boy, and he won't wait."
"Get back to your place, Miss Mortimer," snapped Powell.
"Not me. I'm going."