At the theatre door they found only a few cabs waiting, and these were all engaged. The performance was over, and most of the audience had gone. Zita's name was printed in large letters on the wall-placards; she had been dancing in the ballet. Asking Gemma to wait for him a moment, the Gadfly went round to the performers' entrance, and spoke to an attendant.
“Has Mme. Reni gone yet?”
“No, sir,” the man answered, staring blankly at the spectacle of a well-dressed gentleman carrying a ragged street child in his arms, “Mme. Reni is just coming out, I think; her carriage is waiting for her. Yes; there she comes.”
Zita descended the stairs, leaning on the arm of a young cavalry officer. She looked superbly handsome, with an opera cloak of flame-coloured velvet thrown over her evening dress, and a great fan of ostrich plumes hanging from her waist. In the entry she stopped short, and, drawing her hand away from the officer's arm, approached the Gadfly in amazement.
“Felice!” she exclaimed under her breath, “what HAVE you got there?”
“I have picked up this child in the street. It is hurt and starving; and I want to get it home as quickly as possible. There is not a cab to be got anywhere, so I want to have your carriage.”
“Felice! you are not going to take a horrid beggar-child into your rooms! Send for a policeman, and let him carry it to the Refuge or whatever is the proper place for it. You can't have all the paupers in the town——”
“It is hurt,” the Gadfly repeated; “it can go to the Refuge to-morrow, if necessary, but I must see to the child first and give it some food.”
Zita made a little grimace of disgust. “You've got its head right against your shirt! How CAN you? It is dirty!”
The Gadfly looked up with a sudden flash of anger.