Beside Miss Moon, Bill's "little gal" looked like a tiny fishing boat bobbing under the lee of a large schooner; but she was a pretty creature whose curly hair was naturally almost as golden as it glittered, grey-blue eyes which ought to have been mischievous and merry, but were anxious, a clear, rather freckled white skin, and the piquant nose and innocent smile of a child.
These ladies were not dressed as tidily as their best friends might have wished, but Loveland had grown used to Isidora, and did not pick flaws lightly. They were both very cordial to him, somewhat—it would have seemed—to Mr. Jacobus's contemptuous annoyance; and then, at Miss Moon's suggestion, Ed Binney introduced Mr. Gordon, across and down the length of the table, to all the other members of the company.
There were a few non-theatrical diners in the room, commercial travellers, apparently; but they were at the far end of the table, and were not addressed, though they were on nodding acquaintance with several of the actors and actresses.
The latter were two in number besides Miss de Lisle and Mrs. Jacobus. Miss Ruby St. Clare, whose mission was to act small parts, and play the piano, was of the startled fawn order of young female, evidently not long out of amateurhood; and Mrs. Winter, who had passed the age when it was necessary to preserve her maiden name for programmes. She was a reserved and suspicious-looking woman, who watched her husband with short, sidelong glances of anxiety either for his conduct or his health. As for him, he was a thin, dejected, grey little man who suffered apparently from a broken heart or a shattered digestion. His lips worked, and the lids of his eyes, which winked almost continually, were red-rimmed. He seemed acutely conscious of Mrs. Winter's constant scrutiny.
The remaining male members of the company were Mrs. Jacobus's two sons, Tom and Bob Eccles. They were between twenty and twenty-five, and like their mother, though one was fat, with the lazy smile of a Buddha, and the other, who through a cast in his eye just missed being handsome, inclined to be truculent.
Loveland had intended to take a chair next his room-mate, but Miss Moon made a place for him between herself and Buddha—smiling Bob. As everybody except Jack Jacobus and the Winters talked and joked continually, it was surprising how fast they ate. The corned beef and cabbage, the onions, and the tinned American corn which, with other eatables and uneatables, surrounded their plates in a wreath of little earthenware dishes, disappeared as if by conjuring, to be swiftly replaced by apple-pie and cheese that magically vanished from the face of the table in their turn. Nearly everyone drank large cupfuls of milky coffee with their dinner; and twenty minutes after beginning the meal, all had finished, with the exception of Loveland, who was not accustomed to giving his food such short shrift. He rose with the others, however, and a few moments later the company was straggling in a procession to the theatre.
But after all, it was not a theatre, and even courtesy gave it no more high sounding name than "hall." It stood at the end of Main Street, its brick front wall plastered with wonderful coloured posters representing the most sensational scenes in the Human Flower's repertoire. To reach the stage it was necessary to mount a long, mud-caked staircase, and to pass through the auditorium. As for dressing rooms, they did not exist, for it had been a second thought of some light-minded town council, to turn the hall into a place where theatrical representations might lawfully be produced: but a space on either side of the stage had been curtained off with sheets, shawls and squares of canvas, ingeniously coaxed to hold together. These screens reached unevenly from twenty-four to twelve inches of the floor, and at worst an actor in dressing himself could be seen no higher than the knees—unless, perhaps, a too bright light behind the partition might reveal his whole person en silhouette.
Loveland was anxious to talk with the Star about her old friend—if not love—Bill Willing; and he had hoped on starting to walk by her side; but Miss Moon, seeing his desire, had instantly frustrated it by calling him and beginning to talk of the part he was about to rehearse. As old "Dave Dreadnought," he was supposed to curse her with menaces, and he felt that it would not be difficult to do so realistically, even in the character of Loveland; but he contrived to listen politely, if coldly, to the story of her first marriage at the early age of fifteen. "I'm not quite sixteen years older than my eldest son, who is over twenty now," she said, and did not look pleased when the juvenile lead found no more tactful comment than an absent-minded "Is it possible?"
On the stage he received the short MS. part of Dave Dreadnought, which Mr. Jacobus had not after all been able to unearth before, and was allowed to glance it over while the scene of his "dying curse" was being set. He was too inexperienced to remember what in gay, amateur days he had learned of stage directions, and Jacobus was inclined to be sarcastic at his expense; but both Miss Moon and Miss de Lisle, as well as Ed Binney, befriended him, whispering hurriedly what "down centre," "up left," "take the stage," or "wait on the prompt side" meant; and thanks to their good nature he got on reasonably well. He was called upon also to rehearse the ball scene, where he "walked on" as a young man of fashion, and had the privilege of dancing with Miss Moon before dwindling, in the last act, to a mere Dead Hand. All the "business" had to be repeated again and again, until at last he was confident, and the stage manager almost hopeful.
It was five o'clock by the time Jacobus snapped irritably: "You'll have to do, anyhow"; but as afternoon tea was not a custom in the Human Flower Company, they missed little by absence from the hotel. Still, Loveland had found no chance for a private word with Lillie, who remained ignorant of his acquaintance with Bill Willing.