“Oh! no!” said the manager; “he’d be with Lord Neville or Lady Grace! No, it’s not the marquis!”
She went and dressed for the last and great scene, and when she came out found Jeffrey pacing up and down.
“Better than last night, Doris,” he said nodding, and glancing at her under his thick frowning brows. “You have made all the points to-night; that’s right! Keep cool! Don’t let your head be turned by the applause, and the bouquets. What! Violets again to-night? Very kind, very characteristic! Let me hold them for you,” and he held out his hand for the bouquet, which, unthinkingly, she had brought out with her.
She extended them to him, when, her eyes dwelling on them, she saw a mark of white among the purple blossoms.
Then she gave them to him, saying hurriedly, “Take care of them: they smell so sweet,” and went and took her place at the wing, crushing the piece of paper into the bosom of her dress.
She had to wait some few minutes, and with a quickly throbbing heart she took out the paper and glanced at it.
A scribble in pencil ran across it:
Will you meet me in the fields to-morrow? I must speak to you.
Cecil Neville.
That was all. She replaced the paper in her bosom, where it seemed to burn like a living thing and went on the stage.