“Monseigneur—” Helia began.
“Oh, monsieur,” Sœurette broke in, “it’s for me, isn’t it?—the pretty rose?”
“Why—why—yes!” the duke answered, giving the flower to the child.
He remarked Helia’s surprise. She seemed troubled by his visit. It had been the affair of a moment, but it was sufficient to hinder the duke, who was no apt pupil of Caracal, from giving the rose to Helia.
“You lack nerve!” Caracal whispered in his ear.
“It will come!” answered monseigneur.
“I see the duke and Caracal,” Helia said to herself; “but Phil is not here! It’s not very nice of him.”
The public was coming in. The equestrienne left off rehearsing, with her hat over one ear.
“Come, we have to get ready,” said Helia. “Au revoir, messieurs!”
The benches were filling up. Against the dark shadows of the boxes fans waved to and fro. The duke straightened up in the respectful space which his title of monseigneur left around him. Near him was Cemetery, the clown, waiting for Helia, whom he was to accompany in the ring. He shook the yellow tresses of his wig and groaned constantly, complaining of his aches and speaking of a return to his box to rub himself with camphorated alcohol.