“And what does this mean? Why are you not rehearsing your part?”
“Because,” Miss Dean replied evenly, “I chose to allow another, who can do it quite as well, to rehearse with the company.”
“And I suppose,” there was bitter sarcasm in the director’s voice, “she will sing the part when that night comes?”
“And if she did?”
“Then, Miss Dean, your services would no longer be required.” The man was purple with rage.
“Very well.” Marjory Dean’s face went white. “We may as well—”
But Petite Jeanne was at her side. “Miss Dean, you do not know what you are saying. It is not worth the cost. Please, please!” she pleaded with tears in her voice. “Please forget me. At best I am only a little French wanderer. And you, you are the great Marjory Dean!”
Reading the anguish in her upturned face, Marjory Dean’s anger was turned to compassion.
“Another time, another place,” she murmured. “I shall never forget you!”
Half an hour later the rehearsal was begun once more. This time Marjory Dean was in the stellar role. It was a dead rehearsal. All the sparkle of it was gone. But it was a rehearsal all the same, and the director had had his way.