“Morton, Morton, this won’t do!” he exclaimed, laughing. “You’ll be falling head over ears in love with that young woman presently.”
I became in a moment very red and uncomfortable, for she had just cast a smiling glance up at us and Mr. Marx had intercepted it. I was both ashamed and angry with myself for having applauded so loudly as to have become noticeable; but Mr. Marx seemed to think nothing of it.
“There is a better way of showing your appreciation of that young lady’s talents—Miss Mabel Fay, I see her name is—than by applause. See these flowers?”
I turned round and saw a large bouquet of white azaleas and roses, which the attendant must have brought in.
“You can give them to her if you like,” Mr. Marx suggested.
I shook my head immediately, fully determined that I would do nothing of the sort. But Mr. Marx was equally determined that I should. It was quite the correct thing, he assured me; he had sent for them on purpose and I had only to stand up and throw them to her. While he talked he was writing on a plain card, which he pinned to the flowers and then thrust them into my hand.
How it happened I don’t quite know, but Mr. Marx had his own way. It was the close of the act and everyone was applauding Mabel Fay’s song. She stood facing the house, bowing and smiling, and her laughing eyes met mine for a moment, then rested upon the flowers which I was holding and finally glanced back into mine full of mute invitation.
I raised my hand. Mr. Marx whispered, “Now!” And the bouquet was lying at her feet. She picked it up gracefully, shot a coquettish glance up towards me, and then the curtain fell, and I sat back in my chair, feeling quite convinced that I had made an utter fool of myself.
About the middle of the third act Mr. Marx rose and walked to the door. Holding it open in his hand for a moment, he paused and looked round.
“I am going to leave you for a few minutes,” he said. “I shall not be very long.”