She picked up the head.
"Here, this goes, too."
"No, I can't use that. I want just the head," she answered, and stepped into the oval, the gory head held high above her in both hands. She stood a second, while the applause burst, then she slowly turned to them, held the grisly head against her breast, and slunk down the stairs, panther-like, her hand caressing the dead face.
She was unaware of the audience until she reached the lowest step, then she swept them once in a swift insolent glance, held high the head, laughed, ran to the throne, saluted the King and Queen, then pressing her lips to the dead lips, she ran off.
The applause was deafening, continuous. In the wings they tried to get her to go out and bow, but she refused. The sound grew more imperious, but she was firm. Mr. Paxton had not told her to take any encores. The applause intended for her nearly spoiled the Naomi tableau, a fact which Miss Morton did not forgive. The show went on.
Jane sat back with a sigh. Presently she saw Jerry come into the ante-room to look for her. He hurried over, when he spied her, and seized her hands.
"You played a nice trick on me! You were the best yet. Why didn't you come out and take your curtain?"
"You didn't tell me to."
"Oh, Jane, Jane, you bluffer!"
"May I go home now, or do you want me later?"