But just then a wrangle had broken out upon the stage and people were calling for Mr. Leahurst.
Miss Millbank declared that again she could not say such stuff.
“Well, cut it out,” said somebody. “Or let her speak that line of Mrs. Harcourt’s,” said somebody else. “What’s that bit of Beckett’s?” said the producer. “‘I wonder if women ever think that’—How does it go on? Give Miss Millbank the whole of that bit, Beckett. You can spare it. No, that won’t do either. She can’t say your line about poverty and her trouser pockets.” And they all of them talked at the same time.
Then all at once they appealed to the unhappy-looking man in the corner of the stalls. “Is Mr. Sherwood there? I say. Can’t you help us with a suggestion? Can’t you write in some lines here? You must have some opinion. Sherwood!”
And Emmie with a shock of surprise understood that he was the author.
He said, “I think you’re spoiling it.”
They all turned against him in furious indignation. “Did you hear what he said? Mr. Leahurst, did you hear him? Here are we toiling for him—grinding our hearts out for him—and he says—Oh, great Scott, that puts the lid on everything.”
Mr. Leahurst went down to the orchestra, and said, “There’s no need for us to lose our tempers.”
“Certainly not,” said the producer, crimson with passionate wrath.
Miss Millbank, stepping forward, said she had never been asked to speak such tommy-rot. Stuff that she could not feel!