‘Oh, Miss Howard. Not bad. I should like to speak to her.’
‘By all means; come along.’
And they made their way to the back, cold and draughty, and very disenchanting, as the workmen were shifting the scenes.
‘Take care, Sir Watkin. Mind that trapdoor. Look out, Sir Watkin!’ and suchlike exclamations were uttered by the manager as one danger after another threatened. The scene-shifters, very dirty, were numerous. There a ballet-girl was talking to an admirer, as she was waiting her turn. There another was by herself practising the step which was, in a few minutes, to crown her with well-deserved applause. In the midst of them presently Miss Howard appeared. The manager hastened to introduce his old friend, who, with his hat off, was preparing one of the polite speeches for which men of the world are famous, and by means of which, occasionally, they ensnare a woman.
The lady walked on.
The manager was shocked.
It was now the Baronet’s turn.
‘Permit an old friend to offer Miss Howard his congratulations on her great success this evening.’
The lady thus addressed coldly bowed, but uttered never a word.
The situation was embarrassing. Fain would the Baronet have detained the actress.