“Uh-huh. My parents agreed to let me come to New York to study acting and try for parts for a year, and I agreed that if I didn’t show signs of success before the year was up, I’d come home and go back to college. I’ve been here for eight months now, and I haven’t got anything to show my parents yet. The part I’m trying for now isn’t a big one, but it’s a good supporting role, and what’s more, we get paid. If I can show my mother and father that I can earn some money by acting, I’m sure that they’ll let me go on trying.”
“But do you expect to make enough to live on right away?” Paula asked.
“Oh, no! I’m not that naïve! But when my year is over at the Academy, I can always take a job as a typist or a secretary somewhere, while I look for parts. If you can type and take shorthand, you never have to worry about making a living.”
“I wish that I could do those things,” Paula said wistfully. “The only way I’ve been able to make ends meet is by working in department stores as a salesgirl, and that doesn’t pay much. Besides, the work is so unsteady.”
“My parents are very practical people,” Peggy said with a smile, “and they made sure that I learned routine office skills before they would let me think about other and more glamorous kinds of careers. Daddy owns the newspaper in our small town in Wisconsin, and I’ve worked with him as a typist and a reporter of sorts and as a proofreader, too. I’ll always be grateful that he made me learn all those things. I don’t think he has much faith in the acting business, but he’s been wonderful about giving me a chance. What do your parents think of your wanting to be an actress?”
Instead of answering, Paula suddenly stood up. “Let’s go see how they’re coming with the actors,” she said. “I think they’re almost finished.”
Not wanting to press Paula further, and feeling that perhaps she had asked too personal a question on such short acquaintance, Peggy reluctantly stood too, and joined Paula to watch the last of what she now could only think of as the livestock show.
As she drew closer to the table, she heard Mal saying, “I’m really sorry, Mr. Lang, but you’re just not the right type for the role. Perhaps some other....” and his voice trailed off in embarrassment.
Lang, a short, thin, unhappy young man, answered almost tearfully, “But, Mr. Seton, looks aren’t everything. I’m really a funny comedian. Honestly! If you would only give me a chance to read for you, I know that I could make you change your mind about the way this character should look!”
“I don’t doubt that you could,” Mal said gently, “but if you did, the play would suffer. I’m afraid the comedian we need for this must be a large, rather bluff-looking person, like these three gentlemen whom I have chosen to hear. The part calls for it. I’m sorry.”