Jill couldn’t have said whether she was glad or sorry. She had not seen Wally since that afternoon when they lunched together at the Cosmopolis, and the rush of the final weeks of rehearsals had given her little opportunity for thinking of him. At the back of her mind had been the feeling that sooner or later she would have to think of him, but for two weeks she had been too tired and too busy to re-examine him as a factor in her life. There had been times when the thought of him had been like the sunshine on a winter day, warming her with almost an impersonal glow in moments of depression. And then some sharp, poignant memory of Derek would come to blot him out. She remembered the image she had used to explain Derek to Wally, and the truth of it came home to her more strongly than ever. Whatever Derek might have done, he was in her heart and she could not get him out.
She came out of her thoughts to find that the talk had taken another turn.
“And the wortht of it is,” the Cherub was saying, “we shall rehearthe all day and give a show every night and work ourselves to the bone, and then, when they’re good and ready, they’ll fire one of us!”
“That’s right!” agreed the Southern girl.
“They couldn’t!” Jill cried.
“You wait!” said the Cherub. “They’ll never open in New York with thirteen girls. Ike’s much too thuperstitious.”
“But they wouldn’t do a thing like that after we’ve all worked so hard!”
There was a general burst of sardonic laughter. Jill’s opinion of the chivalry of theatrical managers seemed to be higher than that of her more experienced colleagues. “They’ll do anything,” the Cherub assured her. “You don’t know the half of it, dearie,” scoffed Lois Denham. “You don’t know the half of it!”
“Wait till you’ve been in as many shows as I have,” said Babe, shaking her red locks. “The usual thing is to keep a girl slaving her head off all through the road-tour and then fire her before the New York opening.”
“But it’s a shame! It isn’t fair!”