Girls dance and sing. Men clap. The walls sing and press inward. They press the men and girls, they press John towards a center of physical ecstasy. Go to it, Baby! Fan yourself, and feed your papa! Put .. nobody lied .. and take .. when they said I cried over you. No lie! The glitter and color of stacked scenes, the gilt and brass and crimson of the house, converge towards a center of physical ecstasy. John’s feet and torso and his blood press in. He wills thought to rid his mind of passion. “All right, girls. Alaska. Miss Reynolds, please.” The director wants to get the rehearsal through with. The girls line up. John sees the front row: dancing ponies. The rest are in shadow. The leading lady fits loosely in the front. Lack-life, monotonous. “One, two, three—” Music starts. The song is somewhere where it will not strain the leading lady’s throat. The dance is somewhere where it will not strain the girls. Above the staleness, one dancer throws herself into it. Dorris. John sees her. Her hair, crisp-curled, is bobbed. Bushy, black hair bobbing about her lemon-colored face. Her lips are curiously full, and very red. Her limbs in silk purple stockings are lovely. John feels them. Desires her. Holds off. John: Stage-door johnny; chorus-girl. No, that would be all right. Dictie, educated, stuck-up; show-girl. Yep. Her suspicion would be stronger than her passion. It wouldnt work. Keep her loveliness. Let her go. Dorris sees John and knows that he is looking at her. Her own glowing is too rich a thing to let her feel the slimness of his diluted passion. “Who’s that?” she asks her dancing partner. “Th manager’s brother. Dictie. Nothin doin, hon.” Dorris tosses her head and dances for him until she feels she has him. Then, withdrawing disdainfully, she flirts with the director. Dorris: Nothin doin? How come? Aint I as good as him? Couldnt I have got an education if I’d wanted one? Dont I know respectable folks, lots of em, in Philadelphia and New York and Chicago? Aint I had men as good as him? Better. Doctors an lawyers. Whats a manager’s brother, anyhow? Two steps back, and two steps front. “Say, Mame, where do you get that stuff?” “Whatshmean, Dorris?” “If you two girls cant listen to what I’m telling you, I know where I can get some who can. Now listen.” Mame: Go to hell, you black bastard. Dorris: Whats eatin at him, anyway? “Now follow me in this, you girls. Its three counts to the right, three counts to the left, and then you shimmy—”