“It’s good to be back,” he said with a deep breath.
“Well, the house has been here. Your fault that you haven’t!” Cleeburg cocked his ear to the comforting pop of a champagne cork.
“Gloria has enough of my company eight consecutive times a week,” smiled Brooks.
“We missed you anyhow. Didn’t we, kiddo?”
“Of course. Seeing you in the theater isn’t a bit like having you here under our own roof.” She took off her hat, pushing back the weight of hair as she sat [189] ]down beside him. “They’re distinct and separate lives.”
“I wonder if that’s true,” Brooks put in quickly. “Do you really think the life of the stage can be cut off completely from a man’s everyday existence?”
“Why not?” There was almost an urge in her question, a plea in her eyes.
“I’m inclined to believe,” he answered slowly, “that once the theater is in a man’s blood, it colors everything he thinks and feels and does. He’s got to put so much of himself into it that it becomes an essential part of him.”
“But why is that more true of the stage than of any other profession?”
“Because success on the stage depends less on executive ability than on sincerity. It’s swaying that crowd out there that counts.” He made a sweeping gesture of his long, thin hand. “And they know counterfeit when it’s handed them.”