“We shall see, my lord,” he said as he likewise angrily took his seat and folded his arms.
It was like “The Schism” of Vibert.
It is difficult to tell what would have been the result, had the place been different. Each knew that Nell was just beyond her door; each hesitated; and each, with bitterness in his heart, held on to himself. They sat like sphinxes.
Suddenly, Nell’s door slightly opened. She was dressed to leave the theatre. In her hand she held a note.
“A fair message, on my honour! Worth reading twice or even thrice,” she roguishly exclaimed unto her maid as she directed her to hold a candle nearer that she might once again spell out its words. “‘To England’s idol, the divine Eleanor Gwyn.’ A holy apt beginning, by the mass! ‘My coach awaits you at the stage-door. We will toast you to-night at Whitehall.’”
Nell’s eyes seemed to drink in the words, and it was her heart which said: “Long live his Majesty.”
She took the King’s roses in her arms; the Duke’s roses, she tossed upon the floor.
The manager awoke as from a trance. “You will not believe me,” he said to Buckingham, confidently. “Here comes the arbiter of your woes, my lord.” He arose quickly.
“It will not be hard, methinks, sir, to decide between a coronet and a player’s tinsel crown,” observed his princely rival, with a sneer, as he too arose and assumed an attitude of waiting.
“Have a care, my lord. I may forget–” Hart’s fingers played upon his sword-hilt.