“To-morrow,” he exclaimed, with the joy of battle in his tone, “to-morrow the fight begins in earnest!”
Beatrice passed her hand through his arm.
“Not only for you, dear friend, but for me,” she said. “For you? What do you mean?” he asked quickly.
“I have been trying to tell you all day,” she continued, “but you have been too engrossed. Yesterday afternoon I went to see Mr. Grier at the Atlas Theatre. I had my voice tried, and to-morrow night I am going to take a small part in the new musical comedy.”
Tavernake stared at her in something like consternation. His ideas as to the stage and all that belonged to it were of a primitive order. Mrs. Fitzgerald was perhaps as near as possible to his idea of the type. He glanced incredulously at Beatrice—slim, quietly dressed, yet with the unmistakable, to him mysterious, distinction of breeding.
“You an actress!” he exclaimed.
She laughed softly.
“Dear Leonard,” she said, “this is going to be a part of your education. To-morrow night you shall come to the theatre and wait for me at the stage-door.”