The glow of two cigars
indicated the presence of Goldsmith and Block in the middle of a little
knot of other spectators.
The only response Rose got--the only index to the effect her labors had
produced--was the tone of Galbraith's voice. It rang on her ear a little
sharper, louder, and with more of a staccato bruskness than the
directions he was giving called for. And it was not his practise to put
more cutting edge into his blade, or more power behind his stroke, than
was necessary to accomplish what he wanted. He was excited, therefore.
But was it by the completeness of her success or the calamitousness of
her failure?
"All right," he shouted. "Go and put on the others."
There was another silence after they had fled out on the stage again,
clad tins time in the evening gowns--a hollow heart-constricting
silence, almost literally sickening. But it lasted only a moment. Then,
"Will you come down here, Miss Dane?" called Galbraith.
There was a slight, momentary, but perfectly palpable shock accompanying
these words--a shock felt by everybody within the sound of his voice.
Pages:
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583