Wylie, dark circles under his eyes, spoke a single word to Tony Vaux. “Voice.”
Tony spoke another word. “Character.” He reached for the telephone. “Will you get me my office, Miss Robb?” The call came through. Tony said to somebody: “What are my appointments for to-morrow?” The telephone gave out metallic sounds; the man put it down. “Think you could find your way over to the agency at noon to-morrow?”
Joe knew the question must be for him. He still looked at Wylie.
“Tony wants you to read a part,” Vic said.
Another show? Joe Carlin’s world became a world of exultation. That gave him a chance at two parts. Later he remembered that neither Wylie nor Tony Vaux had said anything about his reading, about the quality he had given the lines. They had spoken only about his voice. It didn’t seem important at the moment.
With a noon appointment at the Everts-Hall Agency, there was nothing to take him to Wylie’s office next morning. And yet the never-failing excitement of a roomful of actors and actresses, the vitality of their crisp conversation, was a potent lure. He arrived early to find Stella Joyce at a window looking down at the street.
“Anything wrong?” Joe asked. The girl had expected to stay in summer stock until Labor Day.
Stella made one of her quick, bird-like gestures. “Nothing that hasn’t happened before. Rain; poor business. If I want to eat beans out of a can there are lots of beans down here; I don’t have to play in cowbarn drama.”
Joe didn’t understand.
Stella said: “The ghost had bunions.” She gave a wry smile that trembled at the corners.