‘There is but one copy in the house, ladies, in yonder safe, and I am sorry to say my father has the key.’
‘Then you must bring it to the theatre to-morrow morning, sir,’ said Mrs. Powell imperiously.
William Henry shook his head. ‘That is the original Shakespeare MS., madam; I could not venture on such a step.’
‘What ridiculous scruples!’ cried Mrs. Powell impatiently, beating her pretty foot upon the floor.
‘But we can use the acting copy,’ suggested Mrs. Jordan, ‘and—if this young gentleman will be so good as to come himself.’ Anything sweeter or more seductive than her tone it was impossible to imagine; even the very pause and break in the sentence had literally an unspeakable charm.
‘I will come with the greatest pleasure,’ said William Henry.
There was indeed no reason why he should not do so, but if there had been it would have been all the same. He was fascinated.
‘To-morrow, then, at eleven o’clock,’ she said, and held out her hand; he pressed it, and she returned the pressure, but with mirthful eyes.
Mrs. Powell shook hands with him too, and shook her head as she did so. ‘Poor young man!’ she said; ‘poor Margaret!’