That thought alone re-established all her roguish coquetry in the space of one second.
CHAPTER VIII.
MR. FISHER'S SUBSTITUTE.
"Mr. Fisher!"
Thus invoked by his name, the hairdresser who had the honor of attending the leading artists of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, stopped suddenly upon the dim staircase which led to the dressing-rooms.
"Who is it?" he inquired, striving to distinguish the person who had accosted him. "What do you want? I am in a hurry. Miss Woodville waits. What! You, my lord?" he added as his interlocutor advanced into the doubtful radiance shed by the argand-lamp upon the upper landing.
A trifle arrogant at first, with a mingling of poorly dissimulated nervousness (for courage was not Mr. Fisher's besetting virtue), the tone of the worthy hairdresser had become obsequious in the extreme. Lord Mowbray was one of his best clients.
"Mr. Fisher," said the young nobleman, "you are going straight home and to bed."
"I, my lord! Your lordship must surely be jesting. They are waiting for me up-stairs, and I must—"