‘Fit?’ she asked laconically, buttoning a glove.
‘Middling,’ said Paul hoarsely.
She slid away from him through the painted doorway, and he heard her voice on the stage. There was a pause, and someone near him whispered:
‘Mr. Armstrong, go on; they’re waiting.’
He obeyed. The practised woman, cool as a cucumber, gave him his cue a second time, and continued to make the pause look rational He plunged into the scene, awkward and constrained, but resolute, and in some degree master of himself. It was his stage business to be awkward and constrained, but he fared not over well, for on the stage it is easy to go too close to nature. But at the very last he lost his nervous tremors, and in the one scene in which he had been coached so often he acquitted himself with credit.
‘Can’t you see?’ he asked in the final line of his piece, and the leading lady was in his arms again.
‘I can see,’ she whispered. ‘Kiss me, you silly boy!’
And Paul bent his lips to hers, and kissed her in a way which looked theatrically emotional to the house. The roller came down with a thud.
‘Stay as you are,’ she said; ‘there is a call.’
The curtain rose again and fell again, and Paul held the leading lady in his arms. The embrace lasted little more than a minute, but it left Paul frantically in love—after a fashion.