It had been a Monday when she first acted at the “Coliseum”; the week would be up on Tuesday.
Muriel grew white and embarrassed, dreading to meet his look, yet looking forward each day to the evening.
On the Saturday when the Carrolls came to fetch her, the novelist turned to Keene.
“Will you drive down to Windsor with us to-morrow? Roberts is coming, and Sir Randal and Lady Trevelyan.”
“I should have been delighted,” the actor said, cordially; “but I have to go down into the country—to see a friend who is ill. I have been wanting to go all the week, but Sunday is my only day, you see.”
And on Monday when Muriel arrived at the theatre, her dresser brought her a note from Keene.
“My dear child,—You will find an old friend in the green room, who is anxious to see you. Can you go now? You had better dress first, however.
“Yours, F. Keene.”
“Who can it be?” she said to herself, telling her dresser to be very quick.
And in ten minutes she was ready and hastening to the green room.