Sheila crept forward to interpose again: “I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Reben. But my husband—”
“Have I treated you badly? Have I neglected anything? Have I done you any injury?”
“No, no. I have no fault to find with you, Mr. Reben. But my husband—”
“Before you married him—before you met him, you promised me—”
“I know. I’m terribly sorry, but my duty to my husband is my highest duty. Please forgive me, but I can’t play any more.”
“You shall play. I have invested a fortune in your future. I have made you a success. You can’t desert me and the company now. You can’t! You sha’n’t, by—”
Sheila shook her head. She was done with the stage. Reben was throttled with his own anger. He turned again on Winfield and shook a jeweled fist under his nose:
“This is your infernal meddling. You get out of here and never come near again.”
Winfield pressed Reben’s fist down with a quiet strength. “We’re not going to.”
“You, I mean; not Sheila. Sheila belongs to me. She is my star. I made her. I need her. She means a fortune to me.”