Oliver looked up into the kindly, sweet face of the man, and a curious sensation passed over him. Could this courtly, perfectly well-bred old gentleman, with his silver-white hair, beaming smile and gentle voice, the equal of any of his father's guests, be an actor? Could he possibly belong to the profession which, of all others, Oliver had been taught to despise? The astonishment of our young hero was so great that for a moment he could not speak.
Simmons thought he read Oliver's mind, and came to his rescue.
"My friend, Mr. Horn, did not like the play to-night, Mr. Gilbert," he said. "He thinks the death-scene was horrible"—and Simmons glanced smiling at the others who stood at a little distance watching the interview with great interest.
"Dear me, dear me, you don't say so. What was it you objected to, may I ask?" There was a trace of anxiety in his voice.
"Why, the murder-scene, sir. It seemed to me too dreadful to kill a woman in that way. I haven't forgotten it yet," and a distressed look passed over Oliver's face. "But then I have seen but very few plays," he added—"none like that."
The old actor looked at him with a relieved expression.
"Ah, yes, I see. Yes, you're indeed right. As you say, it is quite a dreadful scene."
"Oh, then you've seen it yourself, sir," said Oliver, in a relieved tone.
The old actor's eyes twinkled. He, too, had read the young man's mind—not a difficult task when one looked down into Oliver's eyes.
"Oh, many, many times," he answered with a smile. "I have known it for years. In the old days, when they would smash the poor lady's head, they used to have a pan of gravel which they would crunch with a stick to imitate the breaking of the bones. It was quite realistic from the front, but that was given up long ago. How did YOU like the business to-night, Mr. Simmons?" and he turned to the musician.