CHAPTER VIII
FLIPPING THE SHILLING
Shortly after the departure of the strolling players from the tavern, Mauville summoned his servant and ordered his equipage. While waiting he strode impatiently to and fro in the dining-room, which, dismantled of the stage, by very contrast to the temporary temple of art, turned his thoughts to the players. The barrenness of the room smote him acutely with the memory of those performances, and he laughed ironically to himself that he should thus revert to them. But as he scoffed inwardly, his eyes gleamed with vivacity, and the sensations with which he had viewed the young girl night after night were reawakened. What was one woman lost to him, his egotism whispered; he had parted from many, as a gourmand leaves one meal for another. Yes; but she had not been his, insinuated vanity; another had whipped her off before his eyes.
“Why the devil didn’t you tell me he was going with them?” he demanded of the landlord while settling his account.
“He––who?” asked the surprised inn-keeper.
“That adventurer you have been harboring here. How far’s he going with them?”
“I don’t know. The night after the performance I heard the manager ask him to join the company; to write a temperance play.”
“Temperance play!” sneered Mauville. “The fool’s gone with them on account of a woman.”
“I did think he was mighty attentive to one of the actresses,” said the landlord, reflectively. “The one with them melting eyes. Purty good-looking! Quiet and lady-like, too! So he’s gallivanting after her? Well, well, I guess actresses be all alike.”