“That is true,” laughed Fenton. “There is the call-boy, Francis.”
The Carrolls came up, and the invalid’s chair was wheeled to the stage box.
Mr. Gascoigne went off to his stall, for Keene would not run the risk of wearying Fenton by too many faces and conversation at first.
The performance went off more brilliantly than ever.
Muriel, conscious of the white, worn face watching hers and Keene’s every movement, listening to every word, and of her old friend straight in front of her in the stalls, was in a fever of excitement.
Her eyes flashed and sparkled; in the mad scene she surpassed herself, her voice filling every corner of the vast theatre like the chime of silver bells, low but clear.
Keene was superb, and the audience thundered such applause that he was bound to appear after each act again and again, Muriel also being called for with him.
“You will be a great actress, my dear,” Lyon Fenton said to her afterwards. “Although you have had every possible advantage in going on with Keene, still an educated audience would not tolerate mediocrity even under such auspices. You have sympathy, you are en rapport with your part and with the people, and you are very beautiful. Go on working hard—Keene will never let you rest; and he is the greatest man of the time. You like him?”
She coloured hotly under the swift, searching scrutiny.
“My dear, you will not be offended with me—”