The actors were learning their lines, all right, and cues were not being missed too often, but somehow, the play showed no sign of coming together as a whole. What seemed worse to her, the first attempts at characterization were bad—shockingly bad—and did not correspond in the least to her ideas about the play.
Unfortunately, neither Mal nor Randy, nor any of the cast did a thing to cheer her up or make her feel that she might be wrong. Now it was nearly midnight, and Peggy’s depression was deepened by a sheer physical tiredness that was the result of working all day at the New York Dramatic Academy and all night in the rehearsal studios at the Penthouse Theater.
Peggy, Amy, and Greta, in mutual silent gloom, put on their coats and prepared to go home to the Gramercy Arms. In the hallway, they saw Randy and Mal, equally silent and equally gloomy, looking at each other through a cloud of pipe smoke.
“Is it that bad?” Peggy said.
“It’s not good,” Randy said hollowly.
“I’m sure you’re overstating,” Greta said, in an attempt to cheer them up. “I’ve seen rehearsals go a lot worse than this for a long time, then suddenly pull into brilliant shape overnight. After all, it’s less than two weeks, and it’s not as if this were a simple drawing-room comedy. It’s a good play, and a complicated one, and it’s not the easiest thing in the world to do....”
“It may be impossible to do,” Randy said. “But cheer up, girls. We weren’t concerned about your acting. We’ve got other problems.”
“Not problems. Just problem,” Mal put in.
“What’s wrong?” Peggy asked. “Can you tell us, and is there anything we can do?”
“You’re going to have to know sooner or later,” Randy answered, “so we might as well tell you now. Come on in for a cup of coffee and we’ll tell you all about it.”