Now, Barton is not a floral town by any means, so that the bouquets which fell at the feet of the girlish Juliet must have been procured at some pains and trouble. The Romeo filled his arms with them, and one only remained lying on the stage.
It was a magnificent bouquet of white and purple violets, and as it fell, Doris, looking up, saw the handsome face of Lord Neville close to the stage in the orchestra stalls.
She stooped and raised the bouquet and glanced at him, but this time she did not lift the flowers to her lips.
As she passed off, the manager touched her arm.
“I’ve found out who it is that’s got the box on the prompt side,” he said; “it’s Lady Grace Peyton, the great London beauty. She’s staying at Barton Towers, the Marquis of Stoyle’s place, you know.”
“At Barton Towers!” said Doris. Then she went to the side of the proscenium and looked at the box in which Lady Grace’s face was just visible. “How beautiful she is!” she murmured.
“Yes, I should think so!” said the manager. “Why, she’s the professional beauty of the season; it’s an honor to have her in the theatre! And who else do you think is here?” he added, exultingly.
“I don’t know,” said Doris, moving away.
“Why, Lord Cecil Neville, the marquis’ nephew, and he was here last night! What do you think of that? It isn’t only the pit and gallery that have gone mad over you, Miss Marlowe, but the gentry, too! Just as I said last night! Lord Cecil Neville; I daresay you haven’t heard of him, but he’s the best-known man in London. I wish I knew who was in the other box, but I can’t find out.”
“Perhaps it’s the marquis himself,” said Doris, with an absent smile.