"I can't do it," he said brokenly, "I haven't the heart to cut it down
in its prime. It looks so lonely and helpless there by itself." He
swept his razor around several times with a free-handed,
blood-curdling swoop of his arm. "Well, here goes," he said, shutting
his eyes and approaching me. Tony turned away as if unable to witness
the scene. I was unnerved, but I stood my ground. The deed was done
and I was at last free to depart. "That's a terrible chest for a Show
Girl," I heard him to say to Tony as I did so.
_May 29th._ The world has come clattering down around my ears and I am
buried, crushed and bruised beneath the debris. There was a dress
rehearsal to-day, and I, from the whole company, was singled out for
the wrath of the gods.
"Who is that chorus girl on the end acting frantic?" cried out one of
the directors in the middle of a number. My name was shouted across
the stage until it echoed and resounded and came bounding back in my
face from every corner of the shadow-plunged theater. I knew I was in
for it and drew myself up majestically although I turned pale under my
war paint.
"Well, tell him he isn't walking on stilts," continued the director,
and although it was perfectly unnecessary, I was told that and several
other things with brutal candor.
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