"'No' to both questions? I shan't stop till you answer."
"No, to both, then! Now will you be silent?"
"Not unless you say you do care for me."
"Yes—yes, I do care. But, Sh! Don't you hear, they're talking just outside that window in the wall? If you can't keep a still tongue in your head, then for all the saints whisper!"
Her brogue was exquisite, and so was she. I worshipped her. When I slipped my arm round her waist, she dared not cry out. The same when I clasped her hand. Things were coming my way at last. And if I put my lips close against her ear I could whisper as low as she liked. I liked it too. And I loved the ear.
She was right. They were indeed talking just outside the window, Monny Gilder and Anthony Fenton. The prologue was evidently over, and the first act was on. It began well, with a touch of human interest certain to please an audience. But unfortunately for every one concerned, this was a private rehearsal for actors only, not a public performance. Biddy and I had no business in the dark auditorium. We were deadheads. We had sneaked in without paying. The situation was one for a nightmare.
"For heaven's sake, let me cough, or knock something over!" I implored Biddy's ear, which (it struck me at the moment) was more like a flower than an unsympathetic shell, best similes to the contrary. Who could have imagined that it would be so heavenly a sensation to have your nose tickled by a woman's hair?
"There's nothing you can knock over, but me," Biddy retorted, as fiercely as she could in a voice no louder than a mosquito's. "And if you cough, I'll know you're a dog-in-the-manger."
"Why?" curiosity forced me to pursue.
"Because, you donkey, ye say ye don't want her yourself, yet ye won't give yer best friend a chance!"