“What Miss Carroll says is true in part,” said the author. “For five months the comedietta was a drawing-card in the best houses. But during the last two weeks it has lost favour. There is one scene in it in which Miss Carroll made a big hit. Now she hardly gets a hand out of it. She spoils it by acting it entirely different from her old way.”
“It is not my fault,” reiterated the actress.
“There are only two of you on in the scene,” argued the playwright hotly, “you and Delmars, here—”
“Then it’s his fault,” declared Miss Carroll, with a lightning glance of scorn from her dark eyes. The comedian caught it, and gazed with increased melancholy at the panels of the sergeant’s desk.
The night was a dull one in that particular police station.
The sergeant’s long-blunted curiosity awoke a little.
“I’ve heard you,” he said to the author. And then he addressed the thin-faced and ascetic-looking lady of the company who played “Aunt Turnip-top” in the little comedy.
“Who do you think spoils the scene you are fussing about?” he asked.
“I’m no knocker,” said that lady, “and everybody knows it. So, when I say that Clarice falls down every time in that scene I’m judging her art and not herself. She was great in it once. She does it something fierce now. It’ll dope the show if she keeps it up.”
The sergeant looked at the comedian.