Her mind still obsessed by the thought of the newly discovered masterpiece, she turned toward Beecher, who was seated like a ramrod on the edge of his chair.
"A marvelous play! Really, that Mr. Hargrave is a coming man." Forgetting her previous estimate, she rushed on: "Isn't it strange—I always knew he would do it, from the very first! What is extraordinary is the subtlety of it—how he twines two or three emotions together in the same scene. What a glorious chance for an actress! I must telephone the office."
As she rose, a slip of paper which she had been using as a marker fluttered to the floor. She picked it up, recognized it, and handed it to him.
"Oh, yes, here's your check!" she said. "I put it there so as not to forget it. Thanks very much. I'll explain in a minute. I must telephone Stigler; I'm all excited!"
Beecher, more annoyed by this revelation of her professional life than by the rub to his vanity, took the check and pocketed it—not having pronounced a word since his arrival.
She considered him carefully from the corner of her eye as she took up the telephone; but her personal emotion was too buoyant for trivial interruptions.
Stigler, her manager, was out, and she put down the receiver with a jar of impatience. She looked at Beecher again, and, perceiving that there was an explanation due, sought at once to shift the responsibility.
"Do you know, really, you were ridiculously alarmed last night," she said, a spirit of opposition in her voice. "I don't know what made you so panicky."
"Of course," he said sarcastically, "I realize now that I should never have stirred you up, when everything was so calm. It's strange that I did not explain to you the natural reasons for Mr. Garraboy's not calling you up—but then, I usually lose my head at such times."
"You are angry!" she said.