Goring did little but read at the first rehearsals. She liked to conserve her energy for the long sessions Cleeburg put her through during the last weeks.
When they left the theater at five everybody looked wilted but the star. The hour for lunch had been consumed largely with liquid refreshment and most of them again made for soda fountains.
Goring dined with her manager on the Astor Roof. The storm, threatening all day, had not yet broken and a black hood of clouds bore down on the city like the shadow of death. Cleeburg, full of plans, ordered a near-champagne cup and substantial dinner and appeared not to notice the depression above and around them. But Goring it affected unpleasantly. She felt irritable, annoyed by the fact that he could eat a heavy dinner on such a night, prone to find fault with the service, rubbed the wrong way by the strum of the summer orchestra.
“Did you notice how much older Burke looks?”
“Looks good to me,” Cleeburg lifted a cup of steaming bullion while she played with a jellied one before her.
“He’s losing his figure, I think.”
“We ain’t any of us chickens, Jane.”
She pushed the cup away.
“Not that you ain’t a pippin,” he added hastily. “You’ve got the lines—you’ll always have ’em.”
“Don’t talk as if I were a hundred.” Her voice was so sharp that it cut.