She sang the opening chorus of “The Little Viennese.”
“You’ve sung that before,” he said, accusingly.
“Oh, no.”
“Don’t try to kid me. It won’t pay. Read through the one you’ve got there marked 3.” No. 3 was a new interpolation; she might know the rest, but she couldn’t know No. 3. “Ready? Go on,” and, in a minute, surprised, satisfied but by no means inclined to show his satisfaction other than by cutting the trial short, “That’ll do, that’ll do,” he said resentfully. “This isn’t the Albert Hall. What about your dancing?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t danced yet,” said Mary.
“You will,” he said savagely, “and to my piping. I knew there was a catch in it somewhere,” he thought, “but it comes to me that I’ve found a hobby for the rest of this tour. They don’t often send me stuff that’s worth working on.—I suppose you took the name of Arden because you’ve got a wooden leg,” he jeered aloud.
Mary Ellen’s face clouded, then an accomplishment of her street days came back to her. They were not, after all, so long ago. She pitched her hat into the wings and, reckless of the rake of the stage, turned rapid cartwheels.
“It’s that sort of wood,” she said, breathless but defiant.
“Thanks for the assurance,” he said, “only this isn’t a circus and your legs are wooden. They’re wooden because you’ve no brains in them and till you have brains in your toes you’re no use to me. You’ve got an accent that’s as thick as pea-soup and till you’ve cleared it, it’ll stay hidden in the chorus. If you’ll work, I’ll teach you to act but, by the Lord, you’ve work ahead of you. If I take trouble and you don’t work, I’ll flay you alive. Is that understood? Very well. There’s a matinee to-day. You come in and see the show this afternoon and you see it again to-night. You’ll be sitting where I can see you and if I catch you laughing, I’ll eat you. Leave laughing to the audience; it’s their job. You’re there to learn. Watch what the other girls do and when they do it. They’ll love you because I’m calling a chorus rehearsal for you to-morrow. Make mistakes then if you dare. You’ll play to-morrow night. See the wardrobe mistress between the shows to-day about your clothes. I’m paid to make you a chorus girl; you’ll be in the chorus tomorrow night. Then I begin to have my fun with you. I begin to make your name something else than an impertinence. I get busy on you, my girl. You’re clay and I’m the potter. Meantime, we’ll go to the door and I’ll tell the first girl who comes for her letters to show you where you’re likely to find rooms and you can ask her why Hugh Darley proposes to spend four hours a day breaking in a chorus girl.”
Mary asked the other girl, who looked curiously at her. “I never knew Darley to make love before,” she said.