"'We are alone at last. Oh rapture!'" faltered Miss Vavasour for the third time, with the mechanical jump.
"That's marked 'Kiss,'" said the prompter. He was a slovenly man with a dirty face.
"I know it is," snapped Miss Vavasour. "Do let's get to the next line!"
"I was 'elping yer," said the prompter, aggrieved. "If yer don't want no 'elp, sye so!" He read, "'My Prize! My Pearlikins!'"
"'Sometimes,'" continued Miss Vavasour, simulating maiden modesty. "'I wonder if it's all a dream. Why do you love me? You might have married Delicia, who has millions—I am a very poor girl.'"
"You're a very poor actress too," said Mr. Omee under his breath.
"'Why do I love yer, sweetheart?'" mumbled the prompter. "'Your question reminds me of what the apple-blossom said to the moon.'"
"Band cue!" shouted Mr. Quisby. "Have you got that, there in the orchestra?—'The Apple-blossom and the Moon,' song! Go on, Mr.—er—Song over. Get on with the lines."
"Excuse me!" exclaimed the Tenor, reappearing. "That's a cue for the limelight. I don't think it has been marked; I didn't get it at the dress rehearsal."
"Oh yes, it is marked," declared the prompter; "I marked it." He referred resentfully to the typescript. "'Moonlight'! There it is, in its proper plice."