“You say those pretty things because you know it will make me come and kiss you,” said Ivy, saucily, as she threw off her cloak and hat and wreathed her arms about the old man’s neck. “And now while I get your coffee ready you must talk to Mr. Denmead, for he wants work at the theatre and can’t get it.”
“Half a dozen years ago when I was dramatic critic for the Pennon I might have done something for you,” said the old man, wistfully. “But now I am little but a burden as I told you. A few pupils come to me still for lessons in elocution, and I have the training of Ivy who is going to be a credit to me.”
As he spoke he glanced towards the little housewife who with an air of importance was preparing the supper. Ralph thought he had never before seen any one move with such grace, and though her face was lacking in the simplicity and peace which characterised Evereld, it was a particularly winsome little face.
“How did you get on to-night little one?” said the old man.
“Very well,” said Ivy as she poured the coffee out of an ancient percolator into three earthenware cups which had seen hard service. Ralph observed that she kept the cup without a handle for herself, and carefully selected him one which was without a chip on the drinking side of the rim. “But I might easily have broken my leg,” she continued, cheerfully; “for that stupid Jem had forgotten to shut one of the traps properly, and Mr. Merrithorne stumbled and hurt his ankle badly.”
“What part does he play?” said her grandfather.
“Oh he hasn’t very much to do, he is a rather stupid footman and he was bringing in the luncheon tray with the property pie and that old fowl which wants painting again so badly, and when he tripped up, the pie went bowling down the stage, and the fowl landed in Miss West’s lap and every one roared with laughter. She was dreadfully angry, but afterwards when it seemed that Mr. Merrithorne was really hurt she was rather sorry for him.”
“Who is his understudy?”
“I don’t know. It is such a little part, perhaps he hasn’t one. But he was limping dreadfully as he went away. I shouldn’t think he could act to-morrow.”
“It’s possible that might give you a chance,” said the professor of elocution. “A stupid, countrified man-servant you say, Ivy? Are you pretty good at dialect?”