The sharp-elbowed woman dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and said that it was “really quite affecting—quite. I’ve made myself ridiculous.” Then she blew her nose as elegantly as that proletarian feat can be accomplished.
Winfield was astounded at the changes in the play. A few new scenes altered the whole meaning of it. Everything pink before was purple now. The rôles of Sheila and Eldon had been rendered melodramatic. Sheila’s comedy was accomplished now in a serious way. With a quaint little pout, or two steps to the side and a turn of the head, she threw the audience into convulsions.
Suddenly Sheila would quench the hilarity with a word, and the hush would be enormous and strangely anxious; then the handkerchiefs would come out.
Bret would have felt with the mob had the actress been any woman on earth but his own. That made all the difference in the world. He told himself that she was the victim of her art. But his ire burned against Eldon, since Eldon made love to her for nearly three hours. And he said and did noble things that made her love him more and more. And there was no lack of caresses now.
In the second act Eldon overtook the fugitive Sheila and claimed her for his own. She broke loose and ran from him, weeping, because she felt “unworthy of a good man’s love.” But she followed him with eyes of doglike adoration. Her hands quivered toward him and she held them back “for his dear sake.” Then he caught her again and would not let her escape. He held her by both hands.
“Mary!”—that was her name in the play. “Mary,” he cried, “I love you. The sight of you fills my eyes with longing. The touch of your hand sets my very soul on fire. I love you. I can’t live without you!”
He seized her in his arms, crushed her fiercely. She struggled a moment, then began to yield, to melt toward him. She lifted her eyes to his—then turned them away again. The audience could read in them passion fighting against renunciation. She murmured:
“Oh, Jack! Jack! I—”
He pressed his conquest. “You do love me! You must! You can’t scorn a love like mine. I have seen you weeping. I can read in your eyes that you love me. Your eyes belong to me. Your lips are mine. Give them to me! Kiss me! Kiss me—Ma-ry!”
She quivered with surrender. The audience burned with excitement. The lover urged his cause with select language.