"Too bad Linda Godfrey isn't in that dame's shoes," one of them commented sadly. "We wouldn't have to beat the pavement for the next two years."
"Yeah," the other agreed. "You know, this show was really written with Godfrey in mind. I heard the author say so himself, the other night. The poor guy was ready to hang himself when he saw La Pillsworth murdering all his best numbers."
"I hear this Pillsworth put up enough cash to steal the show from under Godfrey," the other replied. "Bet it cost him about a dozen solid gold fortunes. Money still talks, I guess."
"Too bad it doesn't sing, too. This show could use some good singing."
"Oh, I don't know. The dame's got a nice little voice when you come right down to it."
"I don't think the audience is going to get that far down, though. Anyway, that's just the trouble with her voice, it's too nice and too little. What this show needs is a big dirty voice with lots of guts. Like Godfrey's."
Marc edged away, too saddened by what he'd heard to listen to any more. Out on the stage the chorus had ceased to stalk the scenery and Julie, looking terribly alone and lonely, was moving uncertainly before the footlights. Marc felt his heart head south again as her nice little voice began to quaver over the words of a musical cynicism called "Love is a Clop in the Chops." The words of the song to the contrary, she looked and sounded like a very small girl singing in a church choir. Her lovely blondness seemed suddenly dulled and all the natural animation was drained from her blue eyes. The audience was starkly unresponsive.
Marc watched his wife's performance as long as was bearable, then turned away. He wondered how he would ever manage to say the right thing to her when it was all over. The taxi driver, however, still in the wings, seemed completely enthralled by what he saw. Marc only wished there were a thousand more of his benighted kind in the audience. Somewhere backstage a chorus girl yipped, turned about, and slapped the nearest male within reach. Apparently, George was also enjoying himself.
Marc was still deep in thought when the policeman suddenly bore down on him.
"You're Marc Pillsworth, ain't you?" the cop asked.