Suddenly his partner spoke. “The girl might take a turn!”
“In the show?” the portly man said in surprise.
“The Company's Una weighs two hundred pounds and has a face as broad as a barn-door. She shows she is afraid of the lion when she stands beside him in the street parade, and—curse him—he is so clever that he knows it, no matter how he is doped. It incites him to growl at her all through the pageant, and that simply queers the sweet peace of the idea.”
“And you think this untrained girl could take her place!”
“Why not? She couldn't do worse—and she could look the part. See,” he continued, in as business-like way as if Valeria were merely a bale of goods or deaf, “ethereal figure, poetic type of beauty, fine expression of candor and serene courage. She has a look of open-eyed innocence—I don't mean ignorance.” He made a subtle distinction in the untutored aspect of the two countenances before him.
“Would you be afraid of the lion, child?” the stout man asked Valeria. “He is chained—and drugged, too—in the pageant.”
It was difficult for the astonished Valeria to find her voice. “A lion?” she murmured. “I never seen a lion.”
“No? Honest?” they both cried in amazement that such a thing could be. The portly man's rollicking laughter rang out through the thin walls of canvas to such effect that some savage caged beast within reach of the elastic buoyant sound was roused to anger and supplemented it with a rancorous snarl.
Valeria listened apprehensively, with dilated eyes. She thought of the lion, the ferocious creature that she had never seen. She thought of the massive strong woman who knew and feared him. Then she remembered the desolate old grandparents and their hopeless, helpless poverty. “I'll resk the lion,” she said with a tremulous bated voice.
“That's a brave girl,” cried the manager.