Somebody kept shouting "Swell-headed
pup!" and "Go to the devil!" at somebody else repeatedly, but
finally went away, after reaching a vociferous climax of even
harsher epithets and instructions.
The departure of this raging unknown left the lobby quiet; Canby
had gone near to the inner doors. Listening fearfully, he heard
through these a murmurous baritone cadencing: Talbot Potter
declaiming the inwardness of "Roderick Hanscom"; and then--oh,
bells of Elfland faintly chiming!--the voice of Wanda Malone!
He pressed, trembling, against the doors, and went in.
Talbot Potter and Wanda Malone stood together, the two alone in
the great hollow space of the stage. The actors of the company,
silent and remote, watched them; old Tinker, halfway down an
aisle, stood listening; and near the proscenium two workmen,
tools in their hands, had paused in attitudes of arrested
motion. Save for the voices of the two players, the whole vast
cavern of the theatre was as still as the very self of silence.
And the stirless air that filled it was charged with necromancy.
Rehearsal is like the painted canvas without a frame; it is more
like a plaster cast, most like of all to the sculptor's hollow
moulds.
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