“He’s up-stairs in a gallery box.”
“Alone?”
“Yes’m. Anyhow, he was a minute ago, unless some of the rustlers has broke in on him.”
A moment later Glenister, watching the scene below, was aroused from his gloomy absorption by the click of the box door and the rustle of silken skirts.
“Go out, please,” he said, without turning. “I don’t want company.” Hearing no answer, he began again, “I came here to be alone”—but there he ceased, for the girl had come forward and laid her two hot hands upon his cheeks.
“Boy,” she breathed—and he arose swiftly.
“Cherry! When did you come?”
“Oh, days ago,” she said, impatiently, “from Dawson. They told me you had struck it. I stood it as long as I could—then I came to you. Now, tell me about yourself. Let me see you first, quick!”
She pulled him towards the light and gazed upward, devouring him hungrily with her great, languorous eyes.
