“Heyday! What care I for ‘Granada’?” and Nell swung the basket of oranges high in air and calmly awaited bids. “Not a step on the stage till the basket is empty.”
It was Buckingham’s turn now. “Here’s music for our manager,” he chuckled. “Our deepest sympathy, friend Hart.”
This was more than Hart could bear. The manager of the King’s House was forced into profanity. “Damn your sympathy,” exclaimed he; and few would criticise him for it. He apologized as quickly, however, and turned to Nell. “There goes your scene, Nell. I’ll buy your oranges, when you come off,” he continued to plead, in desperation, scarcely less fearful of offending her than of offending the great Lord Buckingham.
“Now or never,” calmly replied the vender from her chair-top.
“The devil take the women,” muttered Hart, frantically, as he rushed headlong into his tiring-room.
“Marry, Heaven defend,” laughed Nell; “for he’s got the men already.” She sprang lightly from the chair to the floor.
Hart was back on the instant, well out of breath but purse in hand.
“Here, here,” he exclaimed. “Never mind the oranges, wench. The audience will be waiting.”
“Faith and troth, and is not Nell worth waiting for?” she cried, her eyes shining radiantly. Indeed, the audience would have gladly waited, could they have but seen her pretty, winsome way! “These are yours–all–all!” she continued, as she gleefully emptied the basket of its remaining fruit over Prince Almanzor’s head.
Hart protested vainly.