“Fire ahead!” He resumed the operation of lighting.
“’Dolph, that Cromwell girl, I simply can’t work with her.”
Again the process of lighting was arrested. “Can’t work with her? Good God!”
She went to him, struck a match and, bending over, held it to the weed. He laughed comfortably, settled back—patted her hand.
“Sort of took the wind out of my sails, that did. Guess I didn’t get you straight, eh?”
She sat down in a chair close to his, her back to the light.
[108]
] “Please do get me right. I’ve nothing against her work, if you like it. It’s her personality that irritates me. There’s something—something snaky about her. She makes me nervous, makes me go off in my lines. You know, I told you in the beginning I didn’t like her.”
“You said she was too homely.”
“Well, she is.”
“Not any more. Why, she’s got a face like—like Fiske. One of those faces you don’t get at first, but with so much behind it that you come to like it better than the kind that’s just easy to look at.”