‘Well, here I am,’ he said quickly, with a glance at the busy, listening maid. ‘Are you almost ready to come home?’
‘I am quite ready,’ returned Madeline, awakening from her dream.
She rose at once, coiled up her hair, put on her hat and cloak, and, after giving a few directions to her maid, took White’s arm and left the room.
The house had been emptied and darkened, and the curtain raised, but confusion still prevailed upon the stage. Carpenters, scene-shifters, property men, actors and actresses, bereft of their splendour, all gathered according to their different grades around Abrahams, Hart, and the acting manager, who were holding forth like the outer world upon the merits of the heroine of the night.
Madeline, plainly dressed, thickly veiled, and clinging closely to White’s arm, hoped to pass unseen through the crowd; but no sooner had she reached the centre of the stage than the keen eye of the manager fell upon her, and he advanced with outstretched hands.
‘My dear Miss Vere,’ he said, ‘allow me to congratulate you on a big success. You’ve hit ’em right between the eyes, my dear. You have, by Jove!
I always said you would. Didn’t I always say you would?’ And turning to White, he added—
‘White, old man, dine with me to-morrow at five sharp. I’ve a lot to talk over.’
Madeline received the homage quietly enough, and by a slight pressure of her hand upon the arm of her delighted guardian hurried him along out through the stage door.
It was a calm still night, the sky was studded with stars; not a breath of air was stirring, but the noise in the streets was deafening, the confusion bewildering. A crowd was gathered round the theatre door, cabs rattled up and down, streams of people moved hither and thither, as if in a feverish dream. Once in the open air, White paused to hail a cab, but Madeline stopped him.