Instead of trying to win her when he had the chance, he had asked her advice about the best way of making love to other girls. Oh, he deserved all he had got, he thought with sudden fury—all—even to being a waiter at Alexander's, and a leading juvenile under the management of "J. J."
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A Mysterious Disappearance
"Gordon, come to our room directly after dinner. I want to talk to you," said Miss Moon. "Not a word to anyone, mind."
She spoke in a low voice, with an air of mystery, stopping Loveland on the stairs, and then passing with a significant look and a finger on her lips, as a door shut sharply somewhere above.
Of course she took it for granted that he would accept the Royal invitation which was a command, and did not need an answer. Equally of course Loveland knew that he would be knocking at the door, at the moment desired, though he was puzzled by the request and the secretive way in which it was made.
It was only a week that day since he had joined the company, but the longest week of his life, save one. Already the time when he had not been a barn-storming country actor seemed distant. He was "old man" or "dear boy," with all the men except Jacobus, and "Gordon" with the actresses. He had heard the life-story of almost everyone among his comrades, male and female; knew why, by evil fate or mere fluke, they had lost splendid and well-deserved chances of gracing Metropolitan theatres; had grown to look upon them all, even Buddha, as fellow beings, and was doing his worried, wearied best with seven new parts committed to memory in as many days.
If Lesley Dearmer were an actress, and it were her company instead of Lillie de Lisle's, he said to himself, how happy he could be in spite of all hardships; for the longing to see Lesley was never absent. He regretted her desperately, and the chance he might have had with her—the chance he had thrown away. He dreamed of her at night, instead of living his troubles over again, and in involved fancies often saw her acting with him on the stage, in the place of Bill's "little gal." Always she seemed near; always she was in his thoughts; but perhaps this was partly because someone had mentioned incidentally that Ashville—where the company was playing now—lay only about thirty miles from Louisville.
Somewhere near Louisville she lived, and if he were Lord Loveland, with money in his pocket—even a little money—instead of being just a strolling actor named Gordon, with two suits of clothes to his back, he would have tried his hardest to find her. He no longer regretted the hopelessness of finding favour in the eyes of American heiresses, because he was homesick for the light in Lesley's sweet eyes, the only woman's eyes that had ever mattered seriously to him—except his mother's. Nothing had happened, really, to make money of less importance to him; rather the other way, yet money did not seem as important as it had, and he told himself that he was well punished for not asking Lesley to marry him. But now he had let her learn to despise him. And being Gordon, the barn-stormer, instead of Lord Loveland, he would have avoided a meeting with the girl if it had come in his way. He could not have endured to be seen by her as he was now, and even should his luck change—as it must before long—with news from home—there would still remain between them as a barrier Lesley's scorn of him which he had taught her to feel, and her knowledge of all his ridiculous adventures. What a contrast to the pictures he had painted for her of his reception in America! With her impish sense of fun, the humorous side of his welcome by New Yorkers must have appealed to her intensely, he was sure, and he did not think that even when he ceased to be P. Gordon, Lesley Dearmer would ever care to think of him seriously again.