“Don’t talk like that, Mary,” he begged.
“I always meant to go when Auntie died, as it makes no difference, anyhow, and now I shall.”
These remarks being somewhat involved, Henry Churchill scarcely knew how to answer, so he said the worst thing possible.
“I don’t see how you can go on the stage without knowing anything about acting.”
“I do know something about it, and when you see me driving about in my carriage I sha’n’t take any notice of you, and that’ll pay you out!”
Henry pondered for a moment before replying:
“Surely you have more respect for your poor aunt’s memory than to go talking about carriages, like that?”
But Mary only pouted, and never said another word during the whole walk home.
Next morning Miss Mary Kent’s place at the estate agent’s was unoccupied, and when Henry, after an agonising three hours, rushed round to her abode, he found a letter awaiting him, the gist of which was she had gone to make her fortune on the stage, and though she would always love him she must give rein to her artistic abilities before the consummation of their happiness could be achieved.
Beginner’s luck is no fable, and it was certainly exampled when Mary Kent presented herself at the stage-door of the Theatre Royal, Brighton, at the psychological moment Eliphalet Cardomay decided that another lady-guest was required for the reception-scene at the Ambassador’s.