You come out slag or steel." He was standing
now, looking down at her with quizzical eyes. "You're about
due to leave the pot," said he.
"And I've hopes that you're steel. If not----" He shrugged
his shoulders--"You'll have had forty a week for your time,
and I'll have gained useful experience."
Susan gazed at him as if she doubted her eyes and ears.
"What do you want me to do?" she presently inquired.
"Learn the art of acting--which consists of two parts. First,
you must learn to act--thousands of the profession do that.
Second, you must learn not to act--and so far I know there
aren't a dozen in the whole world who've got that far along.
I've written a play I think well of. I want to have it done
properly--it, and several other plays I intend to write. I'm
going to give you a chance to become famous--better still, great."
Susan looked at him incredulously. "Do you know who I am?"
she asked at last.
"Certainly."
Her eyes lowered, the faintest tinge of red changed the
amber-white pallor of her cheeks, her bosom rose and
fell quickly.
"I don't mean," he went on, "that I know any of the details of
your experience. I only know the results as they are written
in your face. The details are unimportant. When I say I know
who you are, I mean I know that you are a woman who has
suffered, whose heart has been broken by suffering, but not
her spirit.
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