“But what?”
Miss Gorringe, used to the eccentricities of artists, was unmoved by my violence. She placed the dress carefully over the back of a chair.
“She doesn’t get over,” she said.
“Get over what?”
I had heard this cryptic phrase before, but didn’t know what it meant.
“The footlights—across, into the audience. And she ought to, but they were as cold as frogs till Berwick woke them up with The Three Grenadiers. He can do it. He hasn’t got any better voice or method but,” she gave a little ecstatic gesture, “temperament—oh, my!”
“Has she got no temperament at all?” I asked.
“I’ve never played for anybody who had less.” Miss Gorringe held up the green scarf. “Here’s the sash.”
“Not a bit of thrill,” Miss Bliss chanted, prone before the fire.
“Can’t a person get temperament, learn it in some way?”