Jane Goring said little until the apartment was reached. Then she shook hands with the author who was waiting for them, left the two men together while she changed from her traveling clothes, and an hour later glided in cool and revived in a peacock-blue house-gown whose sleeves floated outward like wings. Cleeburg’s watch was in his hand, but he pocketed it without a word as she entered, and settled back in his chair.
The author opened his script and began to read. His voice filled the silent room, chorused occasionally by the [85] ]gay trill of birds from the park across the way or city sounds from the street below.
The manager’s smile broadened with satisfaction as he progressed. The cigar moved back and forth, propelled by emotion. But Goring listened without comment, eyes half closed, gazing down at the playwright’s head bowed over his manuscript.
Presently a new sound broke upon the stillness. It was from neither bird nor branch, neither the clang of bells nor the rush of traffic. It was light and regular, and it came from within—the steady tapping of a slippered foot. Toward the end of Act II it became noticeable and Cleeburg looked round interrogatively.
Tap—tap! Tap—tap! More swift, more impatient,—until the author’s voice proclaimed “Curtain.”
Then Jane Goring spoke—and the tapping was explained. “But, my dear Mr. Thorne, you don’t expect me to play the lead in that?”
Cleeburg wheeled about in his chair. “What’s the matter with it?”
“Why, there’s nothing for me—not a thing!”
“Nothing for you?”
“Nothing! Not a single opportunity in those first two acts.”