The thought that every note I sang might bring a bank-note to my lonely Vere at home.
QUECKETT.
Carrie
MISS DYOTT.
I went through the performance in a dream! The conductor's bâton beat nothing but, "Vere, Vere, Vere," into my eyes. Some one applauded me! I thought, "Ah, that's worth a new hat to Vere!" I sang my political verse—a man very properly hissed. "He has smashed Vere's new hat," I murmured. At last came my important solo. I drew a long breath, saw a vision of you reading an old copy of The Rock, by the fireside at home—and opened my mouth. I remembered nothing more till I found myself wildly dancing to the refrain of my song. The audience yelled with approbation—I bowed again and again—and then tottered away to sink into the arms of the prompter with the words, "Vere, catch your Carrie!"
QUECKETT.
But my family—my brother Bob—
MISS DYOTT.
What have they ever done for you? While I—it was my ambition to devote every penny of my salary to your little wants.