Nothing happens.
“Now, look here, Miss,” grumbles the producer, “please don’t go wool-gathering. Are you Katie or are you not?”
“Oh, Mr. Producer,” answers the ingénue brightly, “I forgot to bring my part.”
The producer mutters something terrible under his breath, and proceeds to recite the dialogue between Katie and Clara himself, rushing along nineteen to the dozen just as though he were a priest reciting the Lord’s Prayer at a pauper’s funeral. Only the dramatist endeavours to follow the flow of words: no one else betrays the slightest interest.
“Enter Gustav Vchelak,” concludes the producer in a hoarse scream.
One of the players starts; begins hunting through his pockets for his pince-nez; puts them on leisurely; hunts through his part for the exact place; and then enquires at length, “Which page is it?”
“Page six.”
The player turns over the pages, and begins
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