“That’s very true, Mr. Littleton, but you must remember I did n’t ask you to come and hear me. It was Miss Dover who sent for you, and asked me to come out here on the stage. I’m perfectly satisfied with my position, and I guess I can make good as a maid until—well, some day, somewhere, somebody is going to hear me, Mr. Littleton; but I can tell one thing: I’m not going to ‘fire away’ until I shoot to kill. And when that time comes”—she smiled dreamily—“there won’t be any reading letters or bothering about a banging door somewhere!”
Suddenly Vinnie burst into a victorious laugh. “There!” she cried. “That’s the look I want on your face when I act! See? My own words were better than the ones you gave me. I’ve had time to create the ‘spell’; and that’s what tells whether you can act or not.”
Littleton was staring at her like a child listening to a fairy-tale. But what was the subtle influence that began to threaten to mar his perfect concentration, neutralizing the attractive magnetism between the sexes? The woman’s atmosphere! For the first time, Vinnie felt a pang of anxiety for her success. What should she do? lightened through her brain. An answer flashed back: Sarah Dover’s mind must be charged somehow to an equal concentration with his. The same intensity of attention must be compelled. How? Through anger, jealousy, ridicule? Ah! With a triumphant smile of satisfaction, Vinnie, tingling, ran to the center of the stage.
“I’m going to do the big speech in Miss Dover’s own love-scene!” she exclaimed; and she jumped audaciously into the part.
Shooting a wink at the now intensely interested Sarah, Littleton straddled a chair and, chuckling, rested his arms on the back. The smile gradually faded from his face. He began to scowl, chewing a cigar viciously. He muttered gently under his breath, nervously tapping his foot till the climax came.
Then, jumping up with a dash that sent his chair into the footlights, he caught the glowing Vinnie by both hands, and shook them mercilessly.
“Sarah Dover,” he shouted, shaking his fist crazily, “this is the discovery of my life! You’re right, by Jupiter! The girl’s got it! Think of finding a talent like that in the gutter!”
“That’s right; she certainly surprised me!” So spoke the artist in Sarah Dover. But the woman in her added quickly: “But, Mr. Littleton, you mustn’t forget Madame—that French comedienne, you know. It’s almost twelve o’clock.”
“Right out of the gutter! Think of it!” Littleton was repeating. “By Jove, I believe she’d make a perfect—”
“But, Mr. Littleton,”—Miss Dover’s voice had risen harshly,—“really, you must n’t miss that appointment! Madame—”