of emotion was the voice of a peacock.
“Say, listen to me for just one moment!”
Mr. Bunbury recovered from his trance.
“Miss Hobson! Please!”
“Yes, that's all very well...”
“You are interrupting the rehearsal.”
“You bet your sorrowful existence I'm interrupting the rehearsal,” agreed Miss Hobson, with emphasis. “And, if you want to make a little easy money, you go and bet somebody ten seeds that I'm going to interrupt it again every time there's any talk of writing up any darned part in the show except mine. Write up other people's parts? Not while I have my strength!”
A young man with butter-coloured hair, who had entered from the wings in close attendance on the injured lady, attempted to calm the storm.
“Now, sweetie!”
“Oh, can it, Reggie!” said Miss Hobson, curtly.
Mr. Cracknell obediently canned it. He was not one of your brutal cave-men. He subsided into the recesses of a high collar and began to chew the knob of his stick.
“I'm the star,” resumed Miss Hobson, vehemently, “and, if you think anybody else's part's going to be written up... well, pardon me while I choke with laughter! If so much as a syllable is written into anybody's part, I walk straight out on my two feet. You won't see me go, I'll be so quick.”
Mr. Bunbury sprang to his feet and waved his hands.
“For heaven's sake! Are we rehearsing, or is this a debating society? Miss Hobson, nothing is going to be written into anybody's part. Now are you satisfied?”
“She said...”
“Oh, never mind,” observed Miss Winch, equably. “It was only a random thought. Working for the good of the
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