“And what happened then?” Baron asked persuasively.
“Oh—I was getting—rattled! She had no right to work in a line like that.”
“But what did you do?”
“I told her.... You know I am sorry, don’t you?”
“Maybe you’d rather not tell me?”
“You’d better know. I told her that when it came to doing the nasty stuff I had seen pupils from the dramatic schools that looked like headliners compared with her.”
Baron stiffened. “Goodness! You couldn’t have said that!”
“Yes, I did. And I didn’t have to wait to hear from any prompter, either. And she—you know she won’t take anything. The way she looked! She said she was glad to say she didn’t have any idea what I was talking about. Just a stall, you know. Oh, these good people! She called Flora and said I was to be taken into a corner, and that I was to sit there until we went home. And Flora led me into a corner and the others looked back as if they were afraid of me. They all sang after a while—a kind of ensemble affair. Flora held the music over and invited me to sing. I told her musical turns were not in my line. She just kept on holding the music for me—honestly, she’s the dearest thing!—and singing herself. It was a crime, the noise she made. Isn’t it awful when people try to sing and can’t? As if they had to. Why do they do it? I felt like screaming to her to stop. But she looked as if she might be dreaming, and I thought if anybody could dream in that terrible place it would be a crime to wake them, even if they did make a noise. They had an intermission, and then a man down in front delivered a monologue.... Oh, me! Talk about the moving-picture shows! Why, they’re artistic....”
What, Baron wondered, was one to say to a child who talked in such a fashion?
Nothing—nothing at all. He groaned. Then, to his great relief, Flora appeared.