She had a tired mouth, contrasting vividly with the artificial freshness of her teeth.
“When I reach my zenith,” she declared, “it’s Farewell.”
“Shall you assist at poor Esmé Fisher’s?”
“A couple of songs—that’s all.”
Mrs. Sixsmith looked away.
“Naturally,” Miss Sinquier was saying, “one can’t expect instantly to be a draw. More than—perhaps—just a little!”
“With a man who understands in the Box Office....”
“Someone with a big nose and a strong will, eh?”
Mr. Nice lifted a rusty iron and wiped it across his leg.
“In my opinion,” he said, “to associate oneself with a sanctified classic is a huge mistake. And why start a season on the tragic tack?”