Marion Ashley met Poppy in the wings during a quarter of an hour's wait that occurred in the second act.
"Isn't this an awful disappointment?" she said. "Have you anything in view, dear, if we come to a full-stop here?"
"Nothing!" said Poppy, with a brave, careless smile. "Divil a thing!"
"Well ... wouldn't you ... what about Mrs. Chesney? She's hankering after you still. In fact, she appears to have developed a craze for your society. She wrote to me this morning, asking me to search you out."
Poppy flushed slightly. "I'm afraid I should be a failure as a companion," was all she could say. Marion looked at her with curiosity, vexation.
The next day a terrible thing happened. For the first time in his short life little Pat was ill. Not very ill, just white and listless and disinclined to eat. Poppy, like a pale and silent ghost, held him in tender arms every moment of the day, except while he slept, when for his own sake she put him into his bed, but hovered near, watching, praying. Mrs. Print pooh-poohed the sickness as nothing but teething-fever, but the wild-eyed mother begged her to go out and find a doctor. A grave, kind man was found, and his words were not comforting.
"He is not very ill, but he wants care. London is hardly the right place for babies at this time of the year. If it is possible, I should advise you to take him away into the country."
When the hour came for her to go to the theatre, Poppy called in the faithful Mrs. Print once more to watch over the sleeping child. It broke her heart to leave him, but there was nothing else to be done. She might forfeit her engagement if she did not appear at the theatre; or, at any rate, she would forfeit part of her salary, and she needed that more than ever.
She took a halfpenny tram to Victoria Street, meaning to walk from there to the theatre. Someone had left an evening paper on the seat, and she took it up to glance at the advertisements, and see if any hope for the future might be gleaned from them. As she turned over the pages her distracted eyes caught the impression of a name she knew, printed large among several other names. She looked again, and flame came into her face, light to her eyes.
It was, indeed, a name she knew: and yet did not. Sir Evelyn Carson! His name was on the Birthday List of Honours. He had been made a baronet for services rendered to the Empire. Swiftly she scanned the column, until she found the short biographical paragraph which told in brief outline of his daring expedition into Borapota; of the extraordinary personal influence he had speedily acquired over the warlike people of that country and of the remarkable concessions he had gained for the Empire. He had, in fact, without bloodshed or political complications, succeeded in establishing a British Protectorate in a rich and profitable country.