They clapped, they stamped, they cheered. It almost seemed as if a crowd of rational beings had taken leave of their senses. In plain truth, she had witched the hearts out of them, and they were fascinated.
Romeo stood, for the first time in his experience, at a loss what to do, till there rose from the pit a cry, “Juliet, Juliet!” Then he went to the wings and, breathless, grabbed at her hand.
“Come on!” he said, excitedly.
But Jeffrey held her fast by the arm. He was pale and trembling, but his voice was stern and grim.
“No!” he said. “Not yet! This is nothing. Let them wait till the last scene; then—then, if they want her, she shall go, but not till then!”
The two London critics in the stalls exchanged glances.
“Wonderful bit of acting,” said one. “Really wonderful for so young a girl!”
“Yes,” assented the second; then he added thoughtfully, “I wonder what made her wake up. It came quite suddenly, did you notice?”
There was one person in the theatre, one out of the whole crowd, however, who neither clapped nor cheered, but sat perfectly silent. It was Lord Cecil Neville. He sat, breathing slowly and heavily, like one under a spell, his eyes fixed on the spot where she had stood, all his senses in thrall.