“Why, it’s Harry!” she cried, with a genuine pleasure in her voice.
But he was so shocked by the silly little changes she had made in herself that the tone of welcome was lost to his ears, and it was only with difficulty he restrained himself from saying many foolish things.
“Is there anywhere we could go and have a few words together?” he gravely asked.
“Yes, rather! How about the Mik?”
“Mik?”
“Mikado,” she replied. “It’s much better than the Royal, you know; the Royal’s always so full. Fancy your turning up! I’m real glad to see you, boy!”
Henry had never been called “Boy” before, and it grated on his ears as the powder offended his eyes.
All the way to the Mikado Eunice kept up a sharp rattle of dressing-room remarks, about poor dear Flo who couldn’t act a bit, but was such a dear for all that; about Sydney Lennox, who had played second leads with Fred, and was reported to have ticked off Dot before an entire West End company; and endless other showy fragments intended to impress him with the manner of her success, since the day they had parted.
As a matter of fact she had another reason for talking, and that was to hide her own feelings, which had been sorely upset by a short interview she had forced on “Freddie” Manning half an hour before.
Like all good stage-managers, Manning assiduously avoided persons who sought to converse with him on business subjects—but this time Eunice had caught him unawares at the end of a passage that led to a blank wall.