Eileen declined with thanks. It took a week of Sundays to argue away her objections—religious, moral, and social. To play Rosalind to fashionable London was one thing: to appear at a variety theatre or low-class music-hall, which nobody in her world or Mrs. Lee Carter's had ever heard of, was another pair of shoes. Yet strange to say, it was the last consideration that decided her to try. Even if admitted to the boards, she could make her failure in secure obscurity. It would simply be another girlish escapade, and she was ripe for mischief after her long sobriety.
"But even your Mr. Fossy mustn't know my real name or address," she stipulated.
"Who shall I say you are?"
"Nelly O'Neill."
"Ripping. Flows from the tongue like music."
"Then it's rippling you mean."
"What a tongue! Wait till Fossy sees you."
"Will he ask me to stick it out?"
"Oh, Lord, I wish I had your repartee. But I'm thinking—Nelly O'Neill—doesn't it give you away a bit?"
"Keeps me a bit, too. I shouldn't like to lose myself altogether—gain reputation for another woman."