The old man stretched out his hand slowly, and taking the paper from the table, as slowly unfastened it and displayed it at full length.
It was a playbill, printed in the usual style, in red and blue ink—
Theatre Royal, Barton.
“Romeo and Juliet.”
Miss Doris Marlowe as Juliet.
The girl looked at it, a faint color coming into her face; then she raised her eyes to the glittering ones above the placard and shook her head.
“Miss Doris Marlowe will murder Juliet!” she said; “that is what it will be, Jeffrey—simple murder. You must prevent the perpetration of so hideous a crime!”
“Too late!” he said in his hollow voice; “the bills are already out. The play is advertised in the papers; they were booking at the theatre when I left. You must play it. What is the matter?”
“The matter——” she began, then stopped abruptly, as if in despair. “I don’t know what is the matter. I only feel as if—oh, as if I were any one but Juliet. Why didn’t you let me go on playing little comedy parts, Jeffrey? I could do those after a fashion—but Juliet! I ought to be flattered,” and she looked at the bill, “but I am very frightened!” and she laughed again.
“Frightened!” he said, his thick white brows coming together. “Why should you be frightened? Have I not told you you could do it, and do I not know? Am I ever wrong?”
“No, no,” she hastened to reply. “You are always right, and it is I who am always wrong. And indeed, Jeffrey, dear, I will try! I will try for your sake!” and she glided across to his chair and laid her hand—a long, white hand, soft and slim as a child’s—upon his shoulder with tender docility.
“Try for your own,” he said, not unkindly, but gravely. “Try for art’s sake, and yet—yes, try for mine! You know how I have set my dream on your success—you know that it is the dream, the aim of my life! Ever since you were a child and sat upon my knee looking up into my face with your great eyes, I have looked forward to the day when the world should acknowledge that Jeffrey Flint could make a great actor though he failed himself!”