It was not the least interesting part. The closing of the city schools had set free hosts of pilgrims on the ways of knowledge, debarred, as a rule, by stern necessity from such relaxations as pantomimes. Now it seemed that parents in general had risen to a sense of their duty, for it was clearly a “young” night. There were girls and boys in every part of the theatre—in big parties, in twos and threes, or even singly, accompanied by a cheery father and mother, in many cases keener to enjoy than their charges. Everywhere were fresh young faces—girls with bright hair and glowing cheeks, and sunburnt boys with shining collars: and everywhere was a babel and buzz of talk and laughter as the young voices broke loose. A procession—chiefly men—left their seats and filed out; a proceeding which puzzled and pained Norah, who was heard to regret audibly that they were making the mistake of thinking the theatre was over. Wally laid a big box of chocolates on her knee, remarking that she looked hungry—an insult received by the maligned one with fitting scorn. At the moment Norah could scarcely have noticed the difference between chocolates and corned beef!
“Won’t do,” grinned Jim, watching her dancing eyes. “She’s getting too excited, Dad—we’d better take her home to bed!”
“I’d like to see you!” said Norah, belligerently. “Oh, my goodness, Jean, it’s going up again!”
“It”—which was the curtain—flashed up suddenly, as the lights went out, and straightway Norah forgot everything but the wonderland on the stage. She leaned forward breathlessly, half afraid of losing even a glimpse of the marvels that were unfolded with such apparent calm. “As if,” said Norah later, “it was as ordinary as washing-day!”
Ever since she could remember, she had danced. But the dancing on the stage was a new thing altogether. It was music put into motion; it was as though the fairies had caught the spirits of joy and poetry and youth, and turned them all into a rhythmic harmony. There was gladness in every swaying movement; gladness and grace and beauty. “They all look so awfully happy!” breathed Norah. But then—who would not be happy, dancing in Fairyland?
Only, near the end, come one thing that Norah did not like. A children’s ballet, dressed as flowers, had just danced its way off the stage, leaving at one side a tall tiger lily; and from the other corner a tiny thing toddled out to meet it. A wee baby form, almost ridiculous in the quaint tights of green that made it an orchid—a little face, peeping out of the green peaked cap. Very daintily, a little hesitatingly, it began to dance; the orchestra’s music softened and slackened, as if to help the little half-afraid feet. The theatre rang with applause and laughter.
“They shouldn’t let it—it’s a shame!” she uttered very low. “It’s just a baby—and it ought to be in bed! Jim do they make it do this every night?”
“I expect so,” Jim answered. “Bless you, old girl, I suppose they pay the kid!”
“Then they haven’t any business to—I don’t know what its mother’s thinking about!” whispered Norah. “I’m perfectly certain it’s as scared as ever it can be! It’s only a frightened little baby—I think it’s mean to dress it up in those silly clothes and make it come out here in front of all these people!”
“For all you know, old chap, it likes the game,” Jim said, practically.