Meanwhile the Gretry girl turned again from left-centre.
“ ‘Ah, the old home again. See—’ ”
“Stop!” thundered Monsieur Gerardy. “Is that what you call timid and hesitating? Once more, those lines. … No, no. It is not it at all. More of slowness, more of—Here, watch me.”
He made the entrance with laborious exaggeration of effect, dragging one foot after another, clutching at the palings of an imaginary fence, while pitching his voice at a feeble falsetto, he quavered:
“ ‘Ah! The old home—ah … once more. See—’ like that,” he cried, straightening up. “Now then. We try that entrance again. Don’t come on too quick after the curtain. Attention. I clap my hands for the curtain, and count three.” He backed away and, tucking the playbook under his arm, struck his palms together. “Now, one—two—three.”
But this time Isabel Gretry, in remembering her “business,” confused her stage directions once more.
“ ‘Ah, the old home—’ ”
“Left-centre,” interrupted the coach, in a tone of long-suffering patience.
She paused bewildered, and believing that she had spoken her lines too abruptly, began again:
“ ‘See, the clambering—’ ”
“Left-centre.”
“ ‘Ah, the old home—’ ”
Monsieur Gerardy settled himself deliberately in his chair and resting his head upon one hand closed his eyes. His manner was that of Galileo under torture declaring “still it moves.”
“Left-centre.”
“Oh—oh, yes. I forgot.”
Monsieur Gerardy apostrophized the chandelier with mirthless humour.
“Oh, ha, ha! She forgot.”
Still another time Marion tried the entrance, and, as she came on, Monsieur Gerardy made vigorous signals to Page, exclaiming in a hoarse whisper:
“Lady Mary, ready. In a minute you come on. Remember the cue.”
Meanwhile Marion had continued:
“ ‘See the clambering vines—’ ”
“Roses.”
“ ‘The clambering rose vines—’ ”
“Roses, pure and simple.”
“ ‘See! The clambering roses, pure and—’ ”
“Mademoiselle Gretry, will you do me the extreme obligation to bound yourself by the lines of the book?”
“I thought you said—”
“Go on, go on, go on! Is it God-possible to be thus stupid? Lady Mary, ready.”
“ ‘See, the clambering roses have wrapped the old stones in a loving embrace. The birds build in the same old nests—’ ”
“Well, well, Lady Mary, where are you? You enter from the porch.”
“I’m waiting for my cue,” protested Page. “My cue is: ‘Are there none that will remember me.’ ”
“Say,” whispered Landry, coming up behind Page, “it would look bully if you could come out leading a greyhound.”
“Ah, so, Mademoiselle Gretry,” cried Monsieur Gerardy, “you left out the cue.” He became painfully polite. “Give the speech once more, if you please.”
“A dog would look bully on the stage,” whispered Landry. “And I know where I could get one.”
“Where?”
“A friend of mine. He’s got a beauty, blue grey—”
They become suddenly aware of a portentous silence The coach, his arms folded, was gazing at Page with tightened lips.
“ ‘None who will remember me,’ ” he burst out at last. “Three times she gave it.”
Page hurried upon the scene with the words:
“ ‘Ah, another glorious morning. The vines are drenched in dew.’ ” Then, raising her voice and turning toward the “house,” “ ‘Arthur.’ ”
“ ‘Arthur,’ ” warned the coach. “That’s you. Mr. Corthell. Ready. Well then, Mademoiselle Gretry, you have something to say there.”
“I can’t say it,” murmured the Gretry girl, her handkerchief to her face.
“What now? Continue. Your lines are ‘I must not be seen here. It would betray all,’ then conceal yourself in the arbor. Continue. Speak the line. It is the cue of Arthur.”
“I can’t,” mumbled the girl behind her handkerchief.
“Can’t? Why, then?”
“I—I have the nosebleed.”
Upon the instant Monsieur Gerardy quite lost his temper. He turned away, one hand to his head, rolling his eyes as if in mute appeal to heaven, then, whirling about, shook his playbook at the unfortunate Marion, crying out furiously:
“Ah, it lacked but that. You ought to understand at last, that when one rehearses for a play one does not have the nosebleed. It is not decent.”
Miss Gretry retired precipitately, and Laura came forward to say that she would read Marion’s lines.
“No, no!” cried Monsieur Gerardy. “You—ah, if they were all like you! You are obliging, but it does not suffice. I am insulted.”
The others, astonished, gathered about the coach. They laboured to explain. Miss Gretry had intended no slight. In fact she was often taken that way; she was excited, nervous. But Monsieur Gerardy was not to be placated. Ah, no! He knew what was due a gentleman. He closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows to his very hair, murmuring superbly that he was offended. He had but one phrase in answer to all their explanations:
“One does not permit one’s self to bleed at the nose during rehearsal.”
Laura began to feel a certain resentment. The unfortunate Gretry girl had gone away in tears. What with the embarrassment of the wrong gown, the browbeating, and the nosebleed, she was not far from hysterics. She had retired to the dining-room with Mrs. Cressler and from time to time the sounds of her distress made themselves heard. Laura believed it quite time to interfere. After all, who was this Gerardy person, to give himself such airs? Poor Miss Gretry was to blame for nothing. She fixed the little Frenchman with a direct glance, and Page, who caught a glimpse of her face, recognised the “grand manner,” and whispered to Landry:
“He’d better look out; he’s gone just about as far as Laura will allow.”
“It is not convenient,” vociferated the coach. “It is not permissible. I am offended.”
“Monsieur Gerardy,” said Laura, “we will say nothing more about it, if you please.”
There was a silence. Monsieur Gerardy had pretended not to hear. He breathed loud through his nose, and Page hastened to observe that anyhow Marion was not on in the next scenes. Then abruptly, and resuming his normal expression, Monsieur Gerardy said:
“Let us proceed. It advances nothing to lose time.
