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"Because well, because it doesn't happen in real life, and I've tried to make this play real, more than anything else." When Norma Berwynd and her husband arrived Phillips had completely regained his composure, and he greeted them cordially. The woman seemed awed, half-frightened, by her sudden rise to fame. She seemed to be walking in a dream, and a great wonder dwelt in her eyes.
He realized, too, that his blind egotism had served merely to prove the truth of the author's criticism and to emphasize his own shortcomings. The idea enraged him, but the spectacle held him enthralled. Norma Berwynd was not slow to appreciate the truth.
Léontine's constant nagging had borne fruit, after all, in that it had at least taught him to bite down on his words, and to smile at provocation. Yes! Norma Berwynd was a star in spite of herself, in spite of her husband. She was no longer merely the wife of Irving Francis, the popular idol.
"Doesn't Léontine Murat mean more to the public than Norma Berwynd?" she demanded. "Until last night, yes. To-day well, no. She has created this rôle. Besides you couldn't play the part." "And why not, if you please?" "I don't want to hurt your feelings, Léontine." "Go on!" she commanded, in a voice roughened by passion. "In the first place you're not young enough." The woman quivered.
That would ruin " "Give me her part." "I won't be coerced," he flared up, angrily. "You are willing to ruin me, out of pique, I suppose, but I won't permit it. This is the biggest thing I ever did, or ever will do, perhaps; it means honor and recognition, and you're selfish enough to spoil it all. I've never spoken to Norma Berwynd in any way to which her husband or you could object.
Their only criticism was one which he had known to be inevitable, therefore he felt no resentment. "Norma Berwynd was superb," he read; "she combined with rare beauty a personality at once bewitching and natural. She gave life to her lines; she was deep, intense, true; she rose to her emotional heights in a burst of power which electrified the audience.
Certain printed sentences kept dancing through his memory: "Unknown dramatist of tremendous power," "A love story so pitiless, so true, that it electrifies," "The deep cry of a suffering heart," "Norma Berwynd enters the galaxy of stars." That last sentence was the most significant, the most wonderful of all. Norma Berwynd a star!
"I can't see you in it." "Naturally," she sneered. "Well, I can, and it's not too late to make the change. I'll replace her. My name will help the piece." "Léontine!" he exclaimed, in amazement. "What are you talking about? The play is a tremendous success as it is, and Miss Berwynd is a big hit. I'd be crazy to make a change." "You won't give me the part?" "Certainly not. You shouldn't ask it."
When his eyes cleared he saw Norma Berwynd struggling with her husband, interposing her own slender body in his path. Francis was cursing her foully for her unfaithfulness; his voice was thick and brutal. "Yes! It's true!" she cried, with hysterical defiance. "I never knew till now; but it's true! It's true!" "You've killed him!"
Then she breathed, "Go!" and shoved him forward fiercely. It was Irving Francis's cry of rage as he rushed upon them which aroused Norma Berwynd from her dream, from her intoxication. She saw him towering at Phillips's back, and with a scream she tried to save the latter.
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