And now Reben began on him. An outsider had invaded the sanctum of his stage, had attacked one of his people—an actor who had made good. Winfield had broken up the happy family of success with an omen of scandal.
Reben denounced him in a livid fury: “Why did you do it? Why? What right have you to come back here and slug one of my actors? Why? He is a gentleman! Your wife is a lady! Why should you be—what you are? You should apologize, you should!”
“Apologize!” Bret sneered, with all loathing in his grin.
Eldon flared at the look, but controlled himself. “He doesn’t owe me any apology. Let him apologize to his wife, if he has any decency in him.”
He sat down on the table, but stood up again lest he appear weak. Again Sheila threw him a look of hatred. Then she began to coax Winfield from the scene, whispering to him pleadingly and patting his arms soothingly:
“Come away, honey. Come away, please. They’re all staring. Don’t fight any more, please—oh, please, for my sake!”
He suffered her to lead him into the wings and through the labyrinth to her dressing-room.
And now the stage was like a church at a funeral after the dead has been taken away. Everybody felt that Sheila was dead to the theater. The look in her eyes, her failure to rebuke her husband for his outrage on the company, her failure to resent his attitude toward herself—all these pointed to a slavish submission. Everybody knew that if Sheila took it into her head to leave the stage there would be no stopping her.
The curtain went up, disclosing the empty house with all the soul gone out of it. In the cavernous balconies and the cave of the orchestra the ushers moved about banging the seats together. They went waist-deep in the rows, vanishing as they stooped to pick up programs and rubbish. They were exchanging light persiflage with the charwomen who were spreading shrouds over the long windrows. The ushers and the scrub-ladies knew nothing of what had taken place after the curtain fell. They knew strangely little about theatrical affairs.