Sheila turned the eyes of utter wretchedness upon Vickery, in whose face was the look of a stricken stag. They had planned to take supper together, but she begged off. She felt that it was kinder.
Besides, Vickery would have to work all night. The stage director had told him that he must cut at least an hour out of the manuscript before the special rehearsal next morning. And the cuts must be made in chunks because the company had to begin rehearsals at once of the next week’s bill, an elaborate production of one of Mr. Cohan’s farces, in his earlier manner.
As Sheila left the stage she met Eldon staring at her hungrily. Reben had not spoken to him. Sheila had to tell him that the manager’s only praise was for him. But he could get no pleasure from the bouquet because it included rue for Sheila:
“He’s a liar. You were magnificent!” Eldon cried.
“Thank you, Floyd,” she sighed, and, smiling at grief like Patience, shook her head sadly and went to her dressing-room. She was almost too bankrupt of strength to take off her make-up. She worked drearily and smearily in disgust, leaving patches of color here and there. Then she slipped into a mackintosh and stumbled to the waiting carriage.
When she got to her room she let Pennock take off the mackintosh and her shoes and stockings; she was asleep almost before she finished whimpering her only prayer:
“O God, help me to quit the stage—forever. Amen!”
Pennock stared at her dismally and saw that even her slumber was shaken with little sobs.