An ominous coolness now pervaded the atmosphere. Buckingham sat by the table, impatiently tapping the floor with his boot, his eyes growing dark at the delay. Hart still plumed himself before the mirror. His dress was rich; his sword was well balanced, a Damascus blade; his cloak hung gracefully; his big black hat and plumes were jaunty. He had, too, vigour in his step. With it all, however, he was a social outcast, and he felt it, while his companion, whose faults of nature were none the less glaring than his own, was almost the equal of a king.
There was a tap at Nell’s door. It was the call-boy, who had slipped unobserved into the room.
“What is it, Dick?” asked Nell, sweetly, as she opened the door slightly to inspect her visitor.
“A message,–very important,” whispered Dick, softly, as he passed a note within.
“Thank you,” replied the actress; and the door closed again.
Dick was about to depart, when the alert Buckingham, rising hastily from his seat, called him.
“That was Nell’s voice?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord. She’s dressing,” answered Dick. “Good night, Master Hart,” he added, as he saw the manager.
Hart, however, was not in a good humour and turned sharply upon him. Dick vanished.
“She will be out shortly, my lord,” the manager observed to Buckingham, somewhat coldly. “But it will do you little good,” he thought, as he reflected upon his conversation with Nell.