The hammering behind the curtain, which had been incessant during their talk, stopped. A sharp voice rang out, "Third Act!" There was a scurry of feet. Mr. Etheringham came in front, very hot and dishevelled; Mr. Beverley reappeared, only to bolt into his burrow in the pit. Miss Layard rose to her feet, carefully lifting the precious frock well clear of her ankles.
"What do you mean by keeping me waiting like this, Mr. Etheringham?" she asked with elaborate haughtiness.
But poor Mr. Etheringham was at the end of his tether—beyond repartee, even beyond fury.
"For heaven's sake, Ayesha my dear, take hold of this damned third act, and pick it up!" he implored, with the old Weary-Titan lift of his hands.
"There is a bit of avoirdupois about it, isn't there?" she remarked sympathetically. "All the same, it's suffered a sea-change under your accomplished hands, Langley."
"Oh, get round, there's a good girl, or you'll keep the stage waiting."
"What one weak woman can do!" she said, with a nod and a smile as she turned away.
Mr. Etheringham sank into a stall and lay back—with his eyes shut. "I should like to have the blood of those stage-hands," Arthur heard him mutter.
His eyes remained closed right through the act; he knew it too well to need to see it—every position, every speech, every inflection, every gesture. He did not speak either; only his hands now and then rose up above his head and dropped again gently. When at last the curtain fell, he opened his eyes, took off his hat, smoothed his hair, replaced the hat, and turned to Arthur with a sudden expression of peace and relief on his stormy countenance.
"Now it's in the hands of the gods, Mr. Lisle," he said.