‘I could play either a good deal better than most women do.’
The manager laughed, by no means ill-humouredly.
‘I’m sorry I can’t bring you out in Shakespeare just at present, Miss Vale; but—should you think it a condescension to play Laura Denton?’
This was Miss Walcott’s part, now Grace Danver’s. Clara looked at him with mistrust; her breath did not come quite naturally.
‘How long would it take you, do you think,’ pursued the other, ‘to get the words?’
‘An hour or two; I all but know them.’
The manager took a few paces this way and that.
‘We go on to Bolton to-morrow morning. Could you undertake to be perfect for the afternoon rehearsal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll try you. Here’s a copy you can take. I make no terms, you understand; it’s an experiment. We’ll have another talk to-morrow. Good-night.’