"I had a cold," she said meekly.
"Ha!—a cold. So you cannot practice and out of it sweat like everyone?" He glared at gigglers and wagged irascibly with his stick. "All right—all right—everybody positions—petits battements—one, two, one two."
There was no accompaniment from the piano.
"Stop!" he screamed and, turning, made a low mocking bow to a large sad-faced woman in a shabby brown suit at the piano. "If you please, would too much to be asking from you to play?"
A young girl with curly orange hair giggled.
"Werry funnya, werry funnya," he said, and subdued them into serious application. After the petits battements came the grands battements.
"Out, turn out, Claudel, let me see the sole of foot—what are you, a Duncan dancer?" It was one of Master's most contemptuous insults.
Certainly picking on me today. He's too bossy. But a different bossy than Carly. Discipline is good for you. She was dripping and practice had only begun. I must get more sleep the night before class, and no more gin.
A tall dark girl with skinny arms and legs kept on working during rest period, her face screwed in earnest effort. As the dancers were about to resume she raised her hand.
"Yes, Dolores?"
"Master, when I do my grands battements—do I turn out my left too far?"
That Dolores la Verne, what a showoff, always wasting Master's time for special attention, Lucy fumed. She knew she wasn't doing well today and Master was punishing her by ignoring her. Betty Lou, the thirteen-year-old kid, could do 36 fouettés so fast one could see only a whir-r-r as she whipped into each toplike turn around the studio. Makes me feel too old to become a great dancer. I started too late.
Mae was lying on the sofa when Lucy got home.
"Stay away from me so you don't catch this cold. I've phoned Sam to get you a dresser for tonight because I'm not equal to going to the theatre."
"You just rest and take good care of yourself. You can read your
