Endeavors toward this last are most
enjoyable--or least offensive--when they show frank and patent inadequacy.
It was Arthur Lemoyne's fortune--or misfortune--to do his work all too
well.
Mrs. Phillips found his performance as little to her taste as she had
anticipated. Carolyn Thorpe got as much enjoyment out of the gauche
carriage and rough voices of the "chorus girls" as she had expected, but
was not observed to warm toward "Annabella's" closest friend. The Pearsons,
back from their wedding trip, had seats near the big crimson velvet
curtain. Pearson himself openly luxuriated in the amusing ineptitude of two
or three beskirted acquaintances among the upper classmen, but frowned at
Lemoyne's light tenor tones and mincing ways. Of course the right sort of
fellow, even if he had to sing his solo in the lightest of light tenors,
would still, on lapsing into dialogue, reinstate himself apologetically by
using as rough and gruff a voice as he could summon. Not so Lemoyne: he was
doing a consistent piece of "characterization," and he was feminine, even
overfeminine, throughout.
"I never liked him, anyway," said George to Amy.
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