“I know. He is intelligent, and he means to be a gentleman,” St. Jacques answered, frowning gravely as he argued out the position. “I think I see his good points; but I have nothing that—that is in common with any of them. Our worlds are different, and we can never bring them into connection.”
For the moment, Nancy lost her own gayety and spoke with a seriousness which matched his own.
“I think I understand you. I have felt it, myself. It is not anything he does consciously, yet he leaves me feeling that we have absolutely no common ground. By all rights, we Americans ought to feel kinship with the English; but—”
St. Jacques turned to face her.
“But?” he echoed.
However, Nancy’s eyes were fastened on her fan, and she answered, with the fearless honesty of a boy,—
“But now and then I have felt, since I came here, that my likeness was entirely to the French.”
And St. Jacques bowed in silence, as the curtain rose for the final act.
Just then, there came an unexpected scene and one not down upon the programme. The soprano was already in place and the tenor, in the wings, was preparing to rush in to kneel at her feet, when the manager came out across the stage. In the midst of the gaudy costumes, his black-clothed figure made an instantaneous impression, an impression which was heightened by his level voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to be obliged to announce to you—”