The player thus addressed, who had been idling purposelessly near the centre of the stage, looked up with a face of blank surprise.
"Sure," he said—"sure I know it."
"That's something, at least!" Wilbrow commented acidly. "I'm glad you remember it. If I'm not mistaken, I've reminded you of that window twice every day since Monday."
"Yes," agreed the other with a look of painful concentration; "I guess that's right, too."
"And yet you can't remember what I've told you just as often—that I want you to be up there, looking out of the window, when Sylvia enters!"
The actor turned out expostulatory palms. "But, Mr. Wilbrow, what for? I don't see—"
"Because," the producer interrupted incisively, "the stage directions indicate it; because the significance of this scene requires you to be there, looking out, unaware of Sylvia's entrance; because you look better there; because it dresses the stage; because you're in the way anywhere else; because I—God help me!—because I—want—you—to—be—there!"
A smothered giggle broke from a group of players technically off-stage. Wilbrow glared icily toward that quarter.
"Yes, I know," Blaine agreed intelligently. "But how do I get there?"
The front legs of Wilbrow's chair rapped the boards smartly as he jumped up. In silence, he grasped Blaine's arm and with a slightly exaggerated melodramatic stride propelled him to the indicated spot, released him, and stood back.