Cleeburg sprang up. His cigar rotaried excitedly. “No opportunities? My God, Jane, what do you want? As the play stands, you’re the whole show!”
“As the play stands, you might as well hand it to Harrison Burke”—Burke was her leading man—“and let me retire,” came coolly.
The playwright’s eyes began to smoulder. “I don’t get [86] ]you, Miss Goring. This character has been absolutely built round you.”
She turned on him, still cool, still aloof.
“Then why is your man allowed to dominate every scene?”
“He isn’t,” the author protested. “The sympathy is yours, even when I’ve been compelled to give him the long speeches.”
“I don’t see it—not at all. You don’t even give me an opportunity to wear decent clothes.”
“That comes in your last act,” Cleeburg burst out.
“Well, I don’t want to wait until the last act.”
“I can’t very well put a factory girl in satins,” the playwright observed.