He got up and went out into the lobby, and made his way to the refreshment bar; and when he had obtained his brandy and soda he lingered over it and got in conversation with the attendant.
“This Miss Doris Marlowe is a great success?” he said, trying to speak indifferently.
“Oh, yes, she is, indeed,” said the girl, with a long sigh; she had dreamed of being an actress herself, poor thing; “I just stole out and looked in at the last act. A success?—I should think so! I call it magnificent. I never saw anything like it; did you, sir?”
“No, never,” responded Lord Cecil. “She is a London actress, I suppose? And yet I don’t remember seeing her in London,” he added.
“No, I don’t think she’s ever played in London, but always in the provinces. This is the first time she’s ever done anything like this. She’s played here in small parts; this is her first appearance in Shakespeare.”
“Who is she?” he asked, endeavoring to make his question commonplace, yet feeling that he was hanging on her reply.
The girl paused in the wiping of a glass and looked puzzled.
“Who is she? I don’t know, sir. I question whether anybody knows rightly, excepting Mr. Jeffrey.”
“Mr. Jeffrey? Who’s he?” asked Lord Cecil, with a sharp pang. Could this man be her husband?
“Oh, the old gentleman who goes about with her. He ain’t her father, but a kind of guardian. He was an actor once. It was he, so they say, who taught her to act. Anyhow, she treats him just like a father.”