"I'm all right," she said sullenly. "Don't you worry about me."
She heard the curtain rise with a rustling as of mighty wings penetrated by the shrill squeal of an ungreased block; held back a moment; and walked on, into a dazzling glare of footlights, conscious of no emotion whatever beyond desire to get finished with her part and return to the dressing-room. At the designated spot, near the centre of the stage, she paused, faced the audience with her trained smile and mouthed the opening lines with precisely the proper intonation....
The curtain fell at length amid a few, scattering hand-claps that sounded much like faint-hearted firecrackers exploding at a distance. Joan rose from the chair in which she had been seated in a posture simulating abandonment to tears of joy, and walked soberly off the stage—barely anticipating a few stage-hands, who rushed on to make the changes necessary for the next act.
Quard was waiting for her.
"Well," he said, "it didn't go so bad, did it?"
"No," she agreed listlessly.
"Anyhow, they didn't throw things at us."
"No." She endeavoured to smile, with indifferent success.
"I got a lot more laughs with that spittoon business than I thought I would," he continued thoughtfully as they turned back toward the dressing-rooms.
Joan made no reply, but when she stopped at the door of her dressing-room, Quard added tentatively: