“Not a bit,” she answered; “and that is strange, isn’t it? No, I feel as calm and easy as if I were going to play a waiting-maid’s part; but I shall be all on the quiver when I am standing at the wings, ready to go on.”
He nodded, as if he understood, and went out, sending her dresser to her.
Doris dressed quietly and slowly. Jeffrey had impressed upon her the importance of avoiding all hurry just before her appearance, and she had finished, and was sitting before the glass, not looking at herself, but musing, as it seemed, when he came in again.
“Dressed? That is right! The house is crammed! The manager says it is the best house he has had since Mr. Irving was here. The boxes look like London boxes, people in evening dress, and ladies with flowers.”
He stood in front of her, and scanned her dress and get-up keenly.
The dress was of white satin, made quite plainly, with a long train, its only ornament a row of pearls, which were not stage jewels, but real, and of great value, and a present from Jeffrey himself. Her dark hair, looking black by the light, fell round her exquisitely-shaped face like a frame, and, caught up by a white ribbon behind, swept in curving tresses to her shoulders. The faint touch of rouge—every actress must rouge, whether she likes it or not—gave the intense blue eyes an added depth and brilliance, which the long dark lashes veiled now and again, but to rise and render the brilliance and color more marked by their temporary concealment.
It was not his way to praise her beauty, but as he turned away he muttered something that sounded like approval.
“Did you see any one you know, in front, Jeffrey?” she asked.
“No,” he said, almost impatiently. “I know no one! I suppose all the people in the boxes are county people, I do not know! I only care for the pit and gallery; it is from them you must get your verdict, the boxes and stalls will follow suit.”
“Poor county people!” she said, with a smile, but absently.