The actress laughed and told him that he had made up for lost time, and that he was a regular “sitter” now at the Gaiety.
Ruggles said, “He took me every night to see you dance until I balked, Miss Lane.”
“Still, it’s a perfectly great show, Mr. Ruggles, don’t you think so? I like it better than any part I ever had. I am interested about it for the sake of the man who wrote it, too. It’s his first opera; he’s an invalid and has a wife and five kids to look after.”
And Ruggles replied, “Oh, gracious! I feel better than ever, having gone ten times, although I wasn’t very sore about it before! Ain’t you going to eat anything?”
She only picked at her food, drinking what they poured in her glass, and every time she spoke to Dan a look of charming kindness crossed her face, an expression of good fellowship which Ruggles noted with interest.
“I wish you could have seen this same author to-day at the rehearsal of the play,” Letty Lane went on. “He’s too ill to walk and they had to carry him in a chair. We all went round to his apartments after the theater. He lives in three rooms with his whole family and he’s had so many debts and so much trouble and such a poor contract that he hasn’t made much out of Mandalay, but I guess he will out of this new piece. He hugged and kissed me until I thought he would break my neck.”
London had gone mad over Letty Lane, whose traits and contour were the admiration of the world at large and well-known even to the news-boys, and whose likeness was nearly as familiar as that of the Madonnas of old. Her face was oval and perfectly formed, with the reddest of mouths—the most delicious and softest of mouths—the line of her brows clear and straight, and her gray eyes large and as innocent and appealing as a child’s; under their long lashes they opened up like flowers. It was said that no man could withstand their appeal; that she had but to look to make a man her slave; and as more than once she turned to Dan, smiling and gracious, Ruggles watched her, mutely thinking of what he had heard this day, for after her letter came accepting their invitation he had taken pains to find out the things he wanted to know. It had not been difficult. As her face and form were public, on every post-card and in every photographer’s shop, so the actress’ reputation was the property of the public.
As Ruggles repeated these things to himself, he watched her beside the son of his old friend. They were talking—rather she was—and behind the orchids and the ferns her voice was sweet and enthralling. Ruggles tried to appreciate his bill of fare while the two appreciated each other. It was strange to Dan to have her so near and so approachable. His sights of her off the stage had been so slight and fleeting. On the boards she had seemed to be an unreal creation made for the public alone. Her dress, cut fearlessly low, displayed her lovely young bosom—soft, bloomy, white as a shell—and her head and ears were as delicate as the petals of a white rose. Low in the nape of her neck, her golden hair lay lightly, and from its soft masses fragrance came to him.
Ruggles could hear her say: “Roach came to the house and told my people that I had a fortune in my voice. I was living with my uncle and my step-aunt and working in the store. And that same day your father sent down a check for five hundred dollars. He said it was ‘for the little girl with the sweet voice,’ and it gives me a lot of pleasure to think that I began my lessons on that money.”
The son of old Dan Blair said earnestly: “I’m darned glad you did—I’m darned glad you did!”