Nell was back by the vase, toying with the flowers. “London applauds my acting,” she suggested, indifferently.
“London applauds the face and figure; not the art,” replied Hart.
“London is wise; for the art is in the face and figure, Master Jack. You told me so yourself,” she added, sharply, pointing her finger at her adversary in quick condemnation. She turned away triumphant.
“I was a fool like the rest,” replied Hart, visibly irritated that he could not get the better of the argument.
“Come, don’t be angry,” said Nell. Her manner had changed; for her heart had made her fearful lest her tongue had been unkind. “Mayhap Almahyde is the last part Nell will ever play.” She looked thoughtfully into the bunch of roses. Did she see a prophecy there?
He approached the table where she stood. “Your head is turned by the flowers,” he said, bitterly. “An honest motive, no doubt, prompted the royal gift.”
Nell turned sharply upon him. Her lips trembled, but one word only came to them–“Jack!”
Hart’s eyes fell under the rebuke; for he knew that only anger prompted what he had said. He would have struck another for the same words.
“Pardon, Nell,” he said, softly. “My heart rebukes my tongue. I love you!”
Nell stepped back to the mirror, contemplating herself, bedecked as she was with the flowers. In an instant she forgot all, and replied playfully to Hart’s confession of love: “Of course, you do. How could you help it? So do others.”