‘The money might be paid out of the profits of the first night, and then half profits,’ suggested Mr. Erin.
‘Mere details—business,’ cried the manager disdainfully. ‘You must see Albany Wallis about all that. That’s a pretty face,’ he added, stopping abruptly beneath a picture on the wall and pointing to it—’a charming face.’
‘It is the portrait of my niece, Margaret.’
‘Aye, aye; love, faith, a pure soul in a fair body; a true heart, I am sure of it.’
His voice, freighted with genuine feeling, seemed to melt away in music.
‘She is in truth a good girl, Mr. Sheridan: the light of my poor house.’
‘Take care of her, sir; be kind to her, lest, when it is too late, you rue it.’
He was gone in a flash, and the door closed behind him.
Mr. Erin looked at the tragedian in amazement.