Sheila clasped her hands and shook her head like a beggar outside a restaurant window: “Oh, but I envy the woman who plays that part! Who is she?”
“Parton, I suppose,” Reben yawned. “But she’s fallen off lately. Gone and got herself in love—and with a fool actor, of all people! The idiot! I’ve a notion to chuck her. After all the money and publicity I’ve wasted on her, to fall for a dub like that!”
Sheila did not dare plead for the part. But her eyes prayed; her very attitude implored it.
Reben laughed: “In case anything awful happened to Parton—like sudden death or matrimony—I don’t suppose the rôle would interest you?”
“I’d give ten years off my life to play that part.”
“Would you, now?” Reben laughed. “You don’t mean it. Ten years off your life, eh? Would you give ten dollars off your salary?” He chuckled at his shrewdness.
But she answered, solemnly, “I’d play it for nothing.”
“Well, well!” said Reben. “That would be a savin’!” He always would have his little joke. Then he said: “But jokin’ aside, of course I couldn’t afford to let you work for nothin’. Fact is, if the play was a success I could afford to pay you a little better than you’re gettin’ now. What are you gettin’ now?”
“Seventy-five,” said Sheila.
“Is that all!” said Reben. “Well, well, I don’t have to be as stingy as that. But there’s one thing I can’t afford to do and that’s to work for an actor—or actress—who quits me as soon as I make him—or her.”