"T. B.'s" reply sounded like a pistol-shot.
"What for?" he exploded. "Want to turn this play into a farce?"
"Certainly not!"
"Then follow the lines."
It was the settlement for all time of an argument which Miss Merrick and I had waged for weeks. One scene at least, the final, vital scene, would be spared to me. I felt a throb of gratitude, followed by a sudden sick, indescribable sinking of the heart. Had I for one instant forgotten? I remembered again. Nothing mattered. Nothing would ever matter.
Some one sat down beside me, smiled at me, then stared frankly. "Good Heaven, Miss Iverson, did I frighten you?" cried Elman. "You look like a ghost!"
Before I could answer, "T. B." approached us both. Leaning over Elman, he nodded toward the youth who was still vainly trying to act like a gentleman.
"Get rid of him."
"But we open in Atlantic City to-morrow night—" began Elman.
"Get rid of him." "T. B.'s" tones permitted no argument. "Get rid of Haskins, too, and of Miss Arnold."