She turned as she spoke and faced a heavily-built man, who sat on a trunk in one corner, gazing calmly at her frenzy.
“Answer me, Clayte Graham!” she almost screamed. “What do you mean by showing so much preference to that country snip?”
The man shrugged his shoulders before he answered. He was growing weary of his prima donna’s anger.
“I believe I am the manager of this company, Miss Thompson,” he said, calmly, “and so long as I hold that position I shall try to fill it, and one part of my duty is to select my singers.”
“And why have you selected her, I should like to know?” cried the woman. “She is as green as grass and her voice has never had an hour of training.”
“City people like grass,” was his tantalizing answer, “and as for training—her voice don’t need it.”
“Oh, of course you’ll stick up for her! I expected it!” was the furious answer. “But I’ll not put up with it! Do you hear me, Clayte Graham?”
Again the man shrugged his shoulders and smiled at her calmly.
“What will you do about it, Miss Temper?” he asked, very coolly. “You certainly will not be so foolish as to break your contract?”
“Oh, I know what you mean,” cried the woman, more wildly. “I can’t sign another for two years without your permission. No manager would dare engage me. Oh, yes, I understand you.”