In the centre of the stalls, however, sat a figure whose appearance was in striking contrast to that of the habitual theatre-goers surrounding him. In any gathering he would have attracted attention; in the present he was specially remarkable. He was a broad-shouldered muscular man of about thirty, with a face bronzed to a deep brown by exposure to the tropical sun. He had a high forehead, black eyes, a square, determined jaw; a thick, black moustache covered his upper lip, but his cheeks were clean shaven. Even in his well-made dress suit, with faultless linen and spotless tie, he had the appearance of a man whose true place would be leading a forlorn hope or standing alone in some position of loneliness and peril. He sat and listened, or rose and looked about him between the acts, with the air of one to whom a theatre was more or less unfamiliar, and he listened to the whole play, even to the ranting of the subordinate actors, with the approval of a man enjoying a new sensation, and quite unable or unwilling to be dissatisfied or critical.
But from the first moment the new actress appeared upon the stage this man had watched her in fascinated amazement, and as long as she remained there he had eyes for nothing else but her face. As the play proceeded, his expression changed from one of wonder and doubt to another of deep surprise and pain. His brows were knitted, his countenance strangely troubled. When the curtain fell on the first act he sat moveless, and made no attempt to join in the general applause.
Throughout the second act he remained in the same position, troubled and expectant. When it ended he rose quietly, and made his way to the saloon.
Various excited groups were congregated here. One group, consisting of several very young gentlemen, a little bald-headed man with a simpering voice, and a swarthy lean man wrapt up to the throat in a large white muffler, clearly representing the fourth estate.
The lean man in the muffler was holding forth with more zeal than eloquence on the personal appearance of the débutante.
‘Where did she come from?’ asked one of the very young gentlemen. ‘Where did Abrahams pick her up?’
‘I’ve heard that her parents lived in Paris,’ answered the lean man, ‘and that she used to sing once, when quite a young girl, at a café chantant. White knows all about her, I believe.’
‘What power she showed in the cave scene!’ said another very young gentleman.
‘Do you think so?’ the lean man said, reflectively. ‘She rather disappointed me there. And I don’t like her delivery of the blank verse.’
‘Beastly immoral play!’ drawled the man with the bald head. ‘What the French call scabreux?’