A pause, and presently Romeo appeared, leading Juliet by the hand.
The audience stormed and cheered as one man, and those who had not already thrown their bouquets to her threw them now.
She was pale to the lips, and the blue eyes looked almost black as she bent them on the cheering crowd, and like a queen bowed beneath the tribute of their devotion, she bent her girlish head low.
She had nearly crossed the stage, had reached the spot exactly opposite that on which Lord Cecil stood. Then, and not till then, he raised his bunch of violets and tossed them at her feet.
She paused a moment in her triumphant progress, for it was nothing less, then stooped and picked up the rough-and-ready bouquet; Romeo’s arms were quite full.
For an instant her eyes rested on Lord Cecil’s face, then, as if with an involuntary movement, she raised the bunch of violets to her lips and passed off, the side wings engulfing her.
Three times more they called her, as if they could not let her go from their sight, and thrice she came before them, and, modestly, girlishly, bowed her acknowledgments.
Then—tired, hot and thirsty—the crowd began to disperse.
Lord Cecil Neville alone remained on the spot from which he had thrown his bouquet. He could scarcely believe that it was over, until the attendants began to cover up the seats with their calico wrappings, and, taking the hint, he made his way out.
The groups of people he passed through were talking about her triumph. He caught a word here and there, and, all unconsciously, found himself at the stage door. At least, he thought, he should get a glimpse of her as she drove away from the theatre.