"Mr. McDermott thinks it will suit me admirably," I told him.
"Ah, yes, the author," the manager mentioned him as though it were a fact indulgently admitted to the discussion, "but then, my dear Miss Lattimore, we have to think of the audience."
There was this peculiarity of Moresco's handling of an audience, that he treated it as an entity, a sort of human stratification of which the three front rows were lubricious, the body of the orchestra high-brow, the first balcony sentimental and virtuous, the gallery facetious. As far as possible he arranged his plays to meet the requirements.
"Now we have Miss Croyden for Bettina, she is your type."—He meant as a woman, not as an artist; Sarah and I were both serious and respectable.—"For Mrs. Brandis I think we should have something a little more snappy."
"It isn't written snappy in the play," I reminded him.
"Ah, no, that is the trouble; I have spoken to Mr. McDermott; he will perhaps change it."
"And if he doesn't you will keep me in mind for it." I kept my voice with difficulty from being urgent. "You see, I don't feel like playing a heavy part this year." I glanced down at my mourning; I hoped he would accept it as an explanation. Two or three days later I saw Sarah and she remarked that Jerry was rewriting some parts of his play at the request of the manager.
"The part of Mrs. Brandis?" Sarah nodded.
"Mr. Moresco wants it more—more——"
"Snappy," I supplied. "And who is to have it, have you heard?"