He sat for a long moment silent. Then the low, quiet voice went on, richly vibrant as the tones of a cello.
“Yes, I think I might do something with you. That Nazimova bit showed promise. But it will require training and patience—infinite patience. You will have to work hard without complaint, hours over one line, weeks over one short scene. And no recognition, perhaps, for some years to come. You must not consider mundane things. Money must count for nothing. I cannot think of money in connection with my art. You must never grow tired or disgruntled. Above all, you must not question. And in the end, a great artiste, my child,—a great artiste.”
Elizabeth nodded mechanically. She felt like screaming.
He got up slowly as if still uncertain, moved into a [14] ]corner of the little room, eyes still upon her. “Will you take off your hat and smooth down your hair. I must see your features at close range.”
With fingers that trembled and stiffened, she pulled off her tam, combed back her fluffy brown hair and breathlessly lifted her profile to the light. It was, as he had said, a face not beautiful, but malleable to mood as wax, with gray eyes set wide apart, a short nose, full sensitive red lips, deep-cleft chin and swift change of expression that was almost a change of feature. And there was in her slim figure with its soft suggestion of curve, the magnetism of youth, the flame of enduring energy.
He moved finally toward the door.
“You will take the 11:18 to-night to New York, cancel all bookings, and I shall expect you at my theater to-morrow at noon.”
Elizabeth found her voice at last. “If you knew how many, many times I’ve gone to your office, Mr. Kane, and begged on my knees for just one little word with you!”
He smiled once more, that charming, somewhat deprecatory smile of his. “That is not my way of engaging artistes. I must seek them, not they me. I never see those who come to my office, unless I have sent for them. No, my way is to haunt out-of-the-way places. Railroad stations, unknown stock theaters, cheap theatrical hotels, vaudeville houses like this. There, occasionally, I find my flower among the weeds. And when I do, I pluck it to transplant in my own garden. If I discover one a year, I ask no more.”
[15]
] A sob broke in Elizabeth’s throat. “Oh, Mr. Kane—I—I’m so proud—and so—so grateful.”