If her performance in this scene on the preceding night was good, this, to-night, was much in advance of it. Her voice seemed to thrill the vast audience, and, with her face, moved them to tears.
But Doris was conscious of only one spectator and auditor, the one who leaned forward in the centre box, with the rapt attention of a devotee at a shrine.
The curtain fell amidst a thunder of applause, and, pale and quivering, she was led on by the Romeo to receive the enthusiastic expression of approbation and delight.
“Wonderful, Miss Marlowe!” said the Romeo. “Miles ahead of last night, and that was good enough.”
She was about to acknowledge the frank and generous compliment, when she felt her arm seized, and saw Jeffrey standing beside her.
His face was white and drawn, the sunken eyes blazing with passion.
“Doris! Doris!” he gasped.
“Jeffrey!” she said, half frightened. “What is the matter?”
“Look, look!” he panted hoarsely, and he drew the edge of the curtain back and pointed to a box on the right-hand side.
Doris looked and saw a fair, pleasant-looking man standing in the front of the box. He was watching the dispersing audience with a gentle smile, and his fat white hand was softly smoothing his long, fair hair from his forehead. He looked benevolent enough to be a bishop, and Doris stared from him to the white ashen face of Jeffrey.