Voices shivering in altercation issued loudly from a private dressing-room next door.
“What’s up?”
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” the wardrobe-mistress entering said. “Sir Maurice and Mr. Fisher are passing sharp words with a couple of pitchforks.”
“What!”
“The ‘Farm-players’ sent them over from the Bolivar for their Pig-sty scene—and now poor Mr. Mary, Sir M’riss, and Mr. Fisher are fighting it out, and Mrs. Mary, her ladyship, has joined the struggle.”
“Murder!” called a voice.
“Glory be to God.”
Mrs. Sixsmith rolled her eyes.
“Da!” she gasped, as Lady Mary, a trifle dazed but decked in smiles, came bustling in.
“Oh, Men! Men! Men!” she exclaimed, going off into a hearty laugh. “Rough, angelic brutes...!”