The voice of a soubrette trilling snatches of her topical song as she creamed off her make-up, came to them through the sulky gloom of the corridor. Behind the closed door of Miss De Voe's dressing room, the gabble of the pink satin ponies was like hash in the chopping. Overhead, moving scenery created a remote sort of thunder. She stood looking up at him, her young mouth parted.
"I—oh, Hal—well—well, whatta you know about that—Hal
Sanderson—drafted."
He stepped closer, the pallor coming out stronger in his face, enclosed her wrist, pressing it.
"Grover's drafted too."
"Grover—too?"
"He's three thousand and one. Ten numbers before me."
Her irises were growing, blackening.
"Well, whatta you know about that? Grover White, the world's dancing tenor, and Hal Sanderson the world dancing tenor's understudy, drafted! The little tin soldiers are covered with rust and Uncle Sam is going to—"
"Hurry, Bloss, get into your duds. I want to talk. Hurry. We'll eat over at Ramy's."
She turned but flung out an arm, grasping now his wrist.