“Who is she?” asked Kostromsky in a low voice, looking with curiosity at the girl’s face.
“Her name’s Yureva. She’s here as a student. She’s smitten with a passion for dramatic art, you see,” answered the manager, speaking loudly and without any embarrassment.
“Listen to me, Yureva. Have you ever read ‘Hamlet’?” asked Kostromsky, going nearer to the girl.
“Of course I have,” answered she in a low confused voice.
“Could you play Ophelia here this evening?”
“I know the part by heart, but I don’t know if I could play it.”
Kostromsky went close up to her and took her by the hand.
“You see ... Milevskaya has refused to play, and the theatre’s full. Make up your mind, my dear! You can be the saving of us all!”
Yureva hesitated and was silent, though she would have liked to say much, very much, to the famous actor. It was he who, three years ago, by his marvellous acting, had unconsciously drawn her young heart, with an irresistible attraction, to the stage. She had never missed a performance in which he had taken part, and she had often wept at nights after seeing him act in “Cain,” in “The Criminal’s Home,” or in “Uriel da Costa.” She would have accounted it her greatest happiness, and one apparently never to be attained ... not to speak to Kostromsky; no, of that she had never dared to dream, but only to see him nearer in ordinary surroundings.
She had never lost her admiration of him, and only an actor like Kostromsky, spoilt by fame and satiated by the attentions of women, could have failed to notice at rehearsals the two large dark eyes which followed him constantly with a frank and persistent adoration.