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“If any one had, I’d probably have died of nervousness.”

He smiled again, ran a hand through his heavy hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and leaned forward. “You seem to be a very talented little girl. No technique, of course. You have the ABC’s of that to learn. But you have a flexible voice and expressive face, and you showed in that Nazimova bit emotional possibilities. Your reproduction of her tone and accent were really excellent.”

“Th—thank you,” came with difficulty.

“Of course, I have no proof that you can act. Even if you can, it will require infinite patience and training to make an actress of you. But I could do it, I believe.”

Elizabeth gulped.

He shook back his shock of hair. His burrowing eyes narrowed. His fingers hesitatingly played with the thin watch chain that spanned his high waistcoat. “The majority of actresses on the American stage are mere mummers. Those I have made are artistes. But in order to accomplish this, they have given themselves into my hands—absolutely. I have taken girls out of the chorus and made stars of them in the drama—not because they were lovely to look at, or quick or clever, but because I have worked hard with them, with infinite patience developed their personalities, injected into them the inspiration that is Oswald Kane.”