“You will lie at full length on the floor,” said the Professor, with a lordly wave of the hand towards Ralph. “My pupil, Mr. Bourne, will then kneel on your chest, and you will in this position practise the art of breathing.”
Ralph obeyed, not without a strong sense of the absurdity of the whole scene. Could Sir Matthew Mactavish have seen him at that moment, lying on the bare boards of a dingy lodging-house in Vauxhall, with a young reciter of no mean weight kneeling on his chest, with a paralytic and mysterious old sage roaring and shouting instructions and beating impatient tattoos with his stick at intervals, while a pretty young girl sat by the window covering stage shoes with cheap pink satin, how amazed he would have been.
This was certainly beginning at the beginning of all things. By eleven o’clock that morning he was for the first time in his life entering the stage door of a theatre,—it was one of the outlying suburban houses at which there was a stock company and a frequent change of plays,—while Ivy, with her funny little air of importance, showed him all that she thought would interest him.
The manager, a somewhat harassed looking man, took the Professor’s note, read it hurriedly, and glanced keenly at Ralph.
“Does Mr. Merrithorne act to-night?” asked Ivy, anxiously.
“No, my dear; he won’t be fit to go on again for a month at least. I understand, Mr. Denmead, that you are a pupil of Professor Grant.”
“Yes,” said Ralph, “but I am quite a novice.”
“H’m,” said the manager, taking a long look at him. “You’re positively the first man that ever made that confession to me. I’ve a mind to try you. Come with me, and I will give you the part. You can read it at rehearsal if you haven’t time to learn it.”
Ivy beamed with delight when he returned to her.
“The manager was just in his very best temper,” she said, happily. “Come to this quiet corner, and I’ll see that no one interrupts you.”