Sheila was afraid to speak her opinion of Dulcie lest it seem mere jealousy. Eugene voiced it for her.
“To think that such a heifer is a star! Getting rich and getting admiration,” he growled, “while a genius like Sheila rusts in idleness. It’s a crime.”
“It’s all my fault,” said Bret. “I cut her out of it.”
“Don’t you believe it, honey,” Sheila cooed. “I’d rather be starring in your home than earning a million dollars before the public.”
But somehow there was a clank of false rhetoric in the speech. It was lover’s extravagance, and even Bret felt that it could not quite be true, or that, if it were true, somehow it ought not to be.
He felt himself a dog in the manger, yet he was glad that Sheila was not up there with some actor’s arms about her.
After the third act Dulcie sent the company-manager—still Mr. McNish—to invite Mrs. Winfield to come back at the end of the play.
Sheila had hoped to escape this test of her nerves, but there was no escape. She felt that if Dulcie were haughty over her success she would hate her, and if she were not haughty and tried to be gracious she would hate her more.
Dulcie assumed the latter rôle and played it badly. She condescended as from a great height, patronized like a society patroness. Worse yet, she pawed Sheila and called her “Sheila” and “dearie” and congratulated her on having such a nice quiet life in such a dear little village, while “poor me” had to play forty weeks a year. Sheila wanted to scratch her big doll-eyes out.