That’s the scenario, and the play has settled down for an indefinite run at this house.
Roger and Polly read the letter and shook their heads over it. Roger sighed.
“How long do you think it’s really booked for, Polly?”
“Knowing Sheila—” Polly began, then shook her head. “Well, really I don’t know. There are so many Sheilas, and I haven’t met the last three or four of them.”
For many months Sheila was royally entertained by what she called “the merry villagers.” She was the audience and they the spectacle. She took a childish delight in mimicking odd types, to Bret’s amusement and his mother’s distress. She took a daughter-in-law’s delight in shocking her mother-in-law by pretending to be shocked at the Blithevale vices.
Hitherto Sheila had gone to church regularly next Sunday, but seldom this. In Blithevale Mrs. Winfield compelled her to attend constantly. Sheila took revenge by quoting all the preacher said about the wickedness of his parishioners.
When she heard of a divorce or a family wreck she would exclaim, “Why, I thought that only actors and actresses were tied loose!”
When she heard of one of those hideous scandals that all communities endure now and then as a sort of measles she would make a face of horror: “Why, I’ve always read that village life was ninety-nine and forty-four one-hundredths pure.”
When Bret would fume at the petty practices of business rivals, the necessity for crushing down competition and infringement, the importance of keeping the name at the top of the list, Sheila would smile, “And do manufacturers have professional jealousy, too?”
She soon realized, however, that her comedy was not getting across the footlights as she meant it.