"'We are alone at last!'" repeated Miss Vavasour, with a mechanical jump. "'Oh rapture!'"
"Oh rats!" said the manager of the theatre. He turned to Rosalind—"Can she sing?" he asked.
"She sings even better than she acts," said Rosalind innocently.
"Good Lord!" groaned the manager. "Well, what are they waiting for now?"
It was the cue for an embrace, and Miss Vavasour was hanging forward to be clasped in the Tenor's arms, but the Tenor had a request to make—
"Mr. Quisby," he said, disregarding her, "I think it would be better if somebody read my part. I don't know how I shall get through to-night as it is—my cold is so severe."
"Oh, my sufferings!" muttered the manager of the theatre. "Now the Tenor's got a cold. This is going to be a great draw, this show is!"
"Don't you think you could just 'walk through' the 'business,' my boy?" Mr. Quisby asked. "The girl's a bit uneasy in the love scenes—she'll be all over the shop to-night if she don't know what you're going to do."
"I am really very ill," insisted the Tenor feebly; "I'm not fit to rehearse, I ought to be in bed."
"Oh, all right then," answered Mr. Quisby. He beckoned to the prompter. "Here, read the lines—give Miss Vavasour her cues. Do get on, Miss Vavasour, we shall be in the theatre till Doomsday if you don't wake up! 'We are alone at last'—go back, please."