His woe was so profound that Bret reached across the table and squeezed his arm—it was hardly more than a bone. Bret said, “I’ll make her like it!”
“She’s sure to,” Eldon said.
Vickery broke in: “You ought to hear him read it. Sometimes he reads a doubtful scene to me. Then it sounds greater to me than I ever dreamed. A manuscript is like an electric-light bulb, all glass and brass and little loops of thread that don’t mean anything. When the right actor reads it it fills with light like a bowl of fire and shines into dark places.” His mood was so grave that it influenced his language.
Bret said, “Let me take the manuscript to Sheila.”
Vickery frowned. “It’s not in shape for her eyes. It ought to be read to her.”
“Come read it to her, then.”
“My voice is gone and I cough all the time, but if—”
He paused. He did not dare suggest that Eldon read it for him. Eldon did not dare to volunteer. Bret did not dare to ask him. But at length, after a silence of crucial distress, he overcame himself and said, with difficulty:
“Perhaps Mr. Eldon would be—would be willing to read it.”
“I should be very glad to,” said Eldon in a low tone.