“You love him, then?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, then, if you keep me at such a distance, why do you—how can you let him put his arms round you and kiss you twice a day before everybody?”
“He gets paid for it, and so do I.”
“That makes it worse.”
“You think so? Well, I don’t. Actors are like doctors. They have special privileges to do things that would be very wrong for other people.”
Winfield laughed this to scorn. Sheila was furious.
“If there weren’t any actors there wouldn’t be any Shakespeare or any of the great plays. Doctors save people from death and disease. Actors save millions from melancholy and from loneliness, and teach them sympathy and understanding. So it is perfectly proper for an actress to be kissed and hugged on the stage. Acting is the noblest profession in the world, the humanest and the most fascinating. And a woman can do just as much good and be just as good on the stage as she can anywhere else. If you don’t think so, then you have no right to speak to an actress. And I don’t want you to speak to me again—ever! for you come with an insult in your heart. You despise me and I despise you.”
Winfield was in a panic. He had sought this girl out to square himself with her, and he had wounded her deeper than before.
“Oh, please, Miss Kemble, I beg you!” he pleaded. “I don’t blame you for despising me, but I don’t despise you. I think you are wonderful. I’m simply crazy about you. I never saw a girl I—I liked so much. I didn’t mean anything wrong, and I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. I just thought—”