He was absolutely silent.
"You may comb my hair, but if you say another word I shall never play again. You can find some other girl, that's all."
Thereupon he would comb her hair soothingly for ten minutes, pretending not to notice the sobs that were shaking her exhausted body. At last she would turn quickly and catching one of his hands would kiss it frantically: "Uncle Pio, was I so bad? Was I a disgrace to you? Was it so awful that you left the theatre?"
After a long pause Uncle Pio would admit judiciously: "You were good in the scene on the ship."
"But I've been better, Uncle Pio. You remember the night you came back from Cuzco——?"
"You were pretty good at the close."
"Was I?"
"But my flower, my pearl, was the matter in the speech to the prisoner?"
Here the Perichole would fling her face and arms upon the table amid the pomades, caught up into a tremendous fit of weeping. Only perfection would do, only perfection. And that had never come.
Then beginning in a low voice Uncle Pio would talk for an hour, analyzing the play, entering into a world of finesse in matters of voice and gesture and tempo, and often until dawn they would remain there declaiming to one another the lordly conversation of Calderón.