In one of the lower salons the other awaited his return.
One hour passed, then another; he read one, read all the papers, walked restless up and down in growing excitement—till White returned to him, with cheeks more pinched and ghastly than they had been before, and pitiful tears in his eyes. He laid his tremulous hand upon the young man’s shoulder.
‘She has sobbed herself to sleep,’ he said. ‘Would you like to see her now?’ The other, unable to resist, went again into the room where Madeline lay. She was quite unconscious of his presence, in a deep but troubled sleep. Her loose fair hair was scattered upon the pillow—her breath came in short quick pants, which sometimes turned to sobs. Upon one hand her cheek was resting, the other lay carelessly upon the coverlet.
The young man raised her hand gently, and pressed it to his lips.
‘Farewell!’ he murmured. ‘God knows if we shall meet again!’
CHAPTER XVIII.—IMOGEN.
Behind the scenes of the Royal Parthenon Theatre, on a sultry evening in July. The first act of the play was over, and the carpenters were busy setting and preparing the scenes for the next act, while Hart, the stage manager, stood perspiring under his white hat with his back to the curtain. Figures in all kinds of costumes coming and going; female voices chattering, and male voices grumbling, made the confusion worse confounded, when Abrahams, the manager, sumptuously attired in a dress suit which might have been borrowed from a slop-shop in Hounds-ditch, came panting on to the stage.
‘Well,’ he asked, gazing at Hart with a bloodshot, questioning eye; ‘is it a go, will she do?’