When Delmars ceased Miss Carroll started, and covered a sudden flow of tears with both hands.
“There!” cried the playwright, gesticulating with violence; “there you have it, sergeant. For two weeks she has spoiled that scene in just that manner at every performance. I have begged her to consider that it is not Ophelia or Juliet that she is playing. Do you wonder now at our impatience? Tears for the gorilla song! The play is lost!”
Out of her bewitchment, whatever it was, the wood nymph flared suddenly, and pointed a desperate finger at Delmars.
“It is you—you who have done this,” she cried wildly. “You never sang that song that way until lately. It is your doing.”
“I give it up,” said the sergeant.
And then the gray-haired matron of the police station came forward from behind the sergeant’s chair.
“Must an old woman teach you all?” she said. She went up to Miss Carroll and took her hand.
“The man’s wearing his heart out for you, my dear. Couldn’t you tell it the first note you heard him sing? All of his monkey flip-flops wouldn’t have kept it from me. Must you be deaf as well as blind? That’s why you couldn’t act your part, child. Do you love him or must he be a gorilla for the rest of his days?”
Miss Carroll whirled around and caught Delmars
