Doris knew that it was hopeless to attempt to speak of anything but the play, but she made another effort, for conscience sake.
“Do you know who lives in that large place on the hill, Jeffrey, the—the Towers, it is called?”
He shook his head with distinct indifference.
“No; some marquis or other. What does it matter?” he added, impatiently.
“Well, I saw the nephew of the marquis—if he is a marquis—this afternoon. He fell off his horse——”
“Yes!” he said, with profound indifference. “I remember a manager who put horses on in the first scene of ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ It was effective—but unnecessary. By the way, take care how you arrange your train in the ballroom scene; leave Romeo room to get near you without having to draw it on one side; it attracts attention from the action of the play at a most important moment. A detail; but it is the details that, massed together, make or mar the whole.”
She made yet another effort.
“I was going to tell you about the accident, Jeffrey.”
He started, and, stopping in his walk, confronted her with alarm in his face.
“What accident? I have only just left the theatre; it was all right then! Oh, you allude to the man who tumbled off his horse? Never mind; put it out of your head; don’t think of anything but your part. Have you finished your supper?”