She picked up the rag and went on wiping her face.
"Well," she said in a brisk voice, "I wasn't on the job tonight, was I?"
Reassured by her tone, he sat down and faced her.
"No, you weren't. It wasn't a good performance, Panchita. I've always told you the truth and I've got to go on doing it."
"Go ahead, you're not telling me anything I don't know. I've got my finger on the pulse of this house. I know every rise and fall of its temperature. But I can't always be up in G, can I?"
"No, but you can't stay down at zero too long."
"It was as bad as that, was it?"
"Yes, it was bad."
She dropped her hand to the edge of the dressing table and looked at it. Her face, with the hair strained back, the rouge gone, looked withered and yellow. Crowder eyed it anxiously.
"Say, Panchita, you're sick."