But that John
Galbraith should see that he had promoted her on merit and on nothing
but merit, mattered enormously.
Lacking the clue, he watched her in a sort of amused perplexity. Her way
of snatching his instructions, her almost viciously determined manner of
carrying them out, would have been natural had she been working under
the spur of some stinging rebuke, instead of under the impetus of an
unexpected promotion.
"Don't make such hard work of it, Dane," he said at last. "You're all
right, but have a little fun out of it. There are eight hundred people
out there," he waved his arm out toward the empty hall, "who have paid
their hard-earned money to feel jolly and have a good time. If you go on
looking like that, they'll think this piece was produced by Simon
Legree."
There came the same gleaming twinkle in his eye that had disarmed her
resentment once before, and as before, she found herself feeling rather
absurd. What mattered the microcephalic imaginings of greasy Dave and
his friends among the chorus? John Galbraith wasn't the sort of man to
get infatuated with a chorus-girl.
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