"How fussy you are about dirt!" retorted Emile disagreeably.
"Yes. My mother is a Jewess, you know. I expect we notice these things more than the dirty Gentiles."
Her calm assertion of the superior cleanliness of the tribe of Israel,
amused Emile, who had been accustomed to hear the usual contempt of the
English-speaking races for anyone possessing a strain of Jewish blood.
So it was the Jewess in her that accounted for her haunting voice.
The Manager was a hatchet-faced and haggard man who looked as if he went to bed about once a week, on an average, and existed principally on cigarettes and absinthe. The simultaneous arrival of Emile and Arithelli roused him from his normal condition of bored cynicism to comparative animation.
Like the landlady he naturally made his own conclusions.
"When did you arrive?" he demanded of Arithelli. Emile, not being afflicted with a sense of the necessity for elaborate explanation, removed himself a few paces and began to roll a cigarette.
Arithelli stood her ground, listened to the comments on her appearance which the Manager felt himself entitled to use, returned his cynical survey with a level glance, and answered his questions with an unruffled composure.
It was arranged that she should rehearse every day for two hours in the morning, and another two hours between the afternoon and evening performances. For the first act she could wear a habit of any colour she cared to choose, and a smart hat; for the second act, which included jumping over gates, and the presence of the inevitable clown, she would have to wear short skirts.
"They won't suit me," she said. "You see how long and thin I am, and look at my long feet. I shall look a burlesque."
The Manager glared at her.