John Courtney was another of Gloria’s admirers.
“The best actress in New York,” he whispered to Ruth. “But she hasn’t had an engagement for three years. She won’t take anything but leads, and there isn’t a man who dares play opposite her. It’s not alone that she’s so tall—though no man likes to play opposite a woman from one to five inches taller than he—it’s her personality. She fills the stage. The other players are just so much background.”
Later even John Courtney seemed to forget the existence of Ruth, and she sat back in the crowded box in the crowded theatre quite alone. She could not even watch the stage—for they had reduced the people on it to a group of ordinary individuals working at their trade. She had a little sketch pad and a pencil with her and began making caricatures of the principals. She became absorbed in this and forgot to feel alone.
“That nose is wonderful and that’s just her trick with her hands. I didn’t know you were a cartoonist.”
It was Terry Riordan looking over her shoulder. She had not known he was in the box.
“I’m not a cartoonist,” she said, making an effort to hide her sketch pad. “I was only doing it for fun.”
“But they’re great; let me see the others. I had no idea you were so talented. I thought you just daubed around with paint.”
From any one else the words would have been cruel enough, but from Terry Riordan they were almost unbearable. She could hardly keep the tears back.
“That isn’t talent,” she managed to articulate. “It’s just facility. I am studying painting—I never do this sort of thing seriously—I was just playing.”
He had taken the sketches from her and was looking at her in puzzled wonder.