"Coming around later?" she asked.
"Yes."
She nodded and disappeared. When half an hour later she darted out on the stage before an enraptured audience, he found himself a part of the mob spirit which acclaimed her. Her charm was irresistible. He felt her as an artist, not as a woman, but she moved him keenly by her masterly performance. As the audience filed out he went into a nearby florist and bought the entire stock of Killarney roses. He carried them to her dressing-room, and when the maid admitted him, he dropped the mass in her lap.
"For a wild Irish rose," said he.
"Faith, little sisters, he's an Irishman himself," she laughed, burying her face in the bloom.
They were interrupted by the manager, people to see her on various pretexts. Trent was driven into the ugly corridor. He was for the first time somewhat irritated by the situation. Appendage to a star! Had he for once in his carefully planned life completely lost his head, and risked everything on a wild gamble? When she came toward him, ready for the street, he pulled himself together.
"Where shall we go? Do you mind the cafés?"
"People stare so, I seldom go. But it is all right to-night, if you do not mind that."
"Let's go to the Persian Garden and dance."
"All right."