Elman had started for the door on the cue of his valedictory. At her words he turned and came back to the desk where we sat together, his face stamped with a sudden look of purpose; and upon my little study, in which for the past three hours we had wrangled over a dozen unimportant details, a hush fell, as if now, at last, something had entered which was real and vital. For an instant he stood before us, looking down at us with eyes that held an unaccustomed sternness. Then he spoke.
"I had a few words to say to you two when I came here," he began, "but you were both so edgy that I changed my mind. However, if you're talking about losing your nerve you need them, and I'm going to get them off my chest."
Miss Merrick interrupted him, her blue eyes widening like those of a hurt baby.
"Oh, Bertie," she begged, "p-please don't say anything disagreeable. Here we've been rehearsing for weeks, and we three still speak. We're al-most friendly. And now, at the eleventh hour, you're going to spoil everything!"
Her words came out in a little wail. She dropped her head in her hands with a gesture of utter fatigue.
"You are," she ended. "You know you are, and I'm so-o tired!"
Elman laughed. No one ever took Stella Merrick seriously, except during her hours on the stage when she ceased to be Stella Merrick at all and entered the soul of the character she was impersonating.
"Nonsense," he said, brusquely. "I'm going to show my friendship by giving you a pointer, that's all."
Miss Merrick drew a deep breath and twisted the corner of her mouth toward me—a trick I had learned from Nestor Hurd five years ago and had unconsciously taught her in the past three weeks.
"Oh, if that's all!" she murmured, in obvious relief.