“Sure they do, just wild. They—” Angelo’s flow of enthusiasm was cut short by a glower from Gray Steel Face.
“Mr. Drysdale is our director,” the stout man explained. “Directed many plays. Very successful. Makes ’em march. You’re right he does!”
“Gypsy stuff goes well,” Drysdale continued. “But who ever heard of taking a gypsy for a star? She’d need training. No end of it.”
“Oh, no! She—”
“We’d have to read the script. Have to see them perform.” Drysdale gave no heed to Angelo. “Say you bring ’em here to-morrow night, say eight o’clock.”
“No stage,” said the stout manager.
“We—we have a small one,” Angelo explained eagerly. “Come to my studio, won’t you? There you’ll see them at their best.”
“What say, Drysdale?”
“We’ll be there. Mind! Eight sharp. None of your artistic foolishness!”
Next night, the two men did see Petite Jeanne and Dan Baker at their best.