“Yes, sir,” said Beatrice, turning her head slightly; “but pardon me—I have my part to attend to.”
“I don’t care.”
“Excuse me, sir; but I do.”
“Really, madame, you are very stiff for an actress. Is it so very unusual a thing to ask a moment’s conversation?”
“I know that it is the fashion in London and elsewhere, sir, but I dislike it. It destroys my conception of the character,” she said, calmly.
Mr. Effingham laughed. “Come here again, and talk to me,” he said. “Did you not say we should meet again?”
“Yes, sir; and I also said I was not a lady.”
“Well, what is the meaning of that addition?”
“It means, sir, that being an actress I am not at liberty to amuse myself here as I might were I a lady in a drawing room. Pardon me, sir,” she added, calmly, “I am neglecting what I have engaged to do—play Portia.”
And the young woman, quietly disengaging her sleeve from Mr. Effingham’s fingers, moved away to another part of the stage.