“The theatre?” said Maxell. “I didn’t even know the theatre was open.”
“It is called theatre by courtesy,” explained Cartwright; “the inhabitants refer to it as the circus. It’s a big wooden place on the sea edge——”
“I know it, I know it,” said Maxell. “What is being played? The only people I have ever seen there have been Spanish artistes—and pretty bad artistes, too.”
“Well, there’s a treat for you. It is an English company, or rather, a variety company with a number of English turns,” said Cartwright. “We might do worse—at least, I might,” he added ominously.
When they reached the theatre they found it sparsely filled. Cartwright took one of the open boxes, and his companion settled himself into a corner to smoke. The turns were of the kind which are usually to be met with on the Levant; a tawdrily attired lady sang a humorous song in Spanish, the humour being frankly indecent. There were a juggler and a man with performing dogs, and then “Miss O’Grady” was announced.
“English,” said Cartwright, turning to the programme.
“She may even be Irish,” said Maxell dryly.
The wheezy little orchestra played a few bars and the girl came on. She was pretty—there was no doubt about that—and of a prettiness which satisfied both men. She was also British or American, for the song she sang was in a French with which both men were familiar.
“It is horrible to see an English girl in a place like this and in such company,” said Maxell.
Cartwright nodded.