Mrs. Ritter. I wonder if he’s out there yet.
Mrs. Sheppard. I don’t know, dear.
Mrs. Pampinelli. How much of the play did you see, Clara?
Mrs. Sheppard. Why, I stayed just as long as I could, Betty. But when Paula came on, and I heard those lines of mine again, I just couldn’t stand it. [She breaks down, and buries her face in her handkerchief.]
Mrs. Pampinelli. [Laying her hand on her arm] I know, Clara—you’re such an artist.
Mrs. Sheppard. [Pressing her hands against her bosom] Everything just seemed to come back on me.
Mrs. Pampinelli. I know how it is, dear.
Mrs. Sheppard. [Speaking directly to Mrs. Pampinelli] I got thinking how Jimmy would feel, if he could know, that he was the cause of standing in the way of my first real opportunity. [She cries again.]
Mrs. Pampinelli. [Raising her eyes to Heaven] Perhaps he does know, dear.
Mrs. Sheppard. [Turning to her again] I mean, you know, he was always so anxious about my getting into the work. And, somehow or other, I always felt—that I could have done so much with that part. [Mrs. Ritter gives a vague little laugh, and Mrs. Sheppard turns to her quickly.] Oh, of course, you were perfectly adorable in it, darling, I don’t mean that— [The left door opens, and Florence is standing in it, about to come out.]