She hadn't even had him in mind when the fear lest
some one of Rodney's friends might, for a lark, drop in at the Globe and
recognize her, had led her to tell John Galbraith that she couldn't be
in the sextette. Since that question had been settled, she'd hardly
considered the possibility at all. And, during the three weeks before
the opening, since she'd embarked on her career as a costumer, she
literally hadn't given it a thought.
She had dreaded various things as the hour of the opening performance
drew near--reasonable things like the failure of the piece to please,
the reception of their offerings in a chilly silence intensified by
contemptuous little riffles of applause. (She had been in audiences
which had treated plays like that--taken her own part in the expression
of chill disfavor, and she knew now she could never do it again.) She
had dreaded unreasonable things, like the total failure of any audience
to appear and the necessity of playing to empty rows as they had done in
rehearsal; nightmare things, like a total loss of memory, which should
leave her stranded in the middle of a silent stage before a jeering
audience.
Pages:
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603