“Until the day after to-morrow,” smiling; “that is if you think your landlady will accompany you to the theatre. I imagine you see that you have no one else at present, though that will not be for long.”
“Mrs. Armstrong will look rather strange—”
“She will not be noticed much in a box. Here we are. What a pleasant journey it has been. Shall I get you a cab?”
And as Muriel found herself driving to Charlotte Street in a hansom she thought that if all her days in London were only half as pleasant as this had proved, she would never have cause to regret leaving Abbot Mansfield.
The “Coliseum” was crowded as usual.
Nine months in the year the cultivated and impassioned acting of Francis Keene drew rapt admiration from packed audiences, who listened to every syllable that fell from his firm mouth.
As lessee, stage-manager, and principal actor, he had his hands full, and his genius for staging a play from Shakespeare downwards was known throughout Europe.
Critics could find no flaw in this, though they occasionally differed about his rendering of a part.
His tall, well-proportioned figure moved easily on the stage, and the clearly-cut features and musical, perfectly-trained voice were especially fitted for picturesque rôles, although Keene was too true an actor to adhere to them.