"These writer chaps are queer birds. For an instant, Gerald wished the rest of the world away that he might go to her and administer appropriate comfort. He classified her as he seated himself. Horrible memories of things seen beneath the microscope of the baser forms of life crawled across her mind and set her shuddering with imagined irritations. Earles said, slowly, keeping his eyes fixed upon her, “forty at the ‘Unusual,’ two turns, encores voluntary, six for matinées. She also knew that he was the type who would not make a single physical overture until she pushed the correct buttons. A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat.
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