“Yes. I was in the theatre,” he said. “You did not see me, of course, but I was there, and—I can’t tell you how we all felt, how we all feel. It was superb; it was—but there, I can only thank you.”
“You have done that already,” she said, with a smile, as she raised the violets.
Lord Cecil Neville blushed. I am afraid it would be rather difficult to get credit for this statement in certain quarters in London.
“I couldn’t get any better ones,” he said, apologetically.
“No,” she said; “I think you could not! Yes, I saw you in the theatre,” she added, as if she had been thinking of his first sentence. “Were—were you surprised, or did you know?” and she glanced at him with a half curious smile.
“Surprised!” he said. “I could scarcely believe my senses! I had no idea, until I saw you on the stage, that you, who were so good to me yesterday, were a great actress.”
“I am not,” she said, in a low voice. “I am only a very little one. To-night I succeeded, another night I might fail——” a faint shadow came on her face, as he looked puzzled; then she smiled, as she broke off, to add: “I have something of yours——”
“Yes, my heart!” was his mental comment, but he said aloud: “Of mine?”
“Yes,” she said. “A handkerchief, I haven’t it here,” and she smiled again; then, suddenly, her face grew crimson, for she remembered that she had left it in the bosom of her dress. “I—I will send it to you if you tell me where.”
“Let me call for it,” he said, eagerly.