"She'd get fearfully wet," I mused, "and her mother would put a stopper on trips."
While I was searching my brains for an expedient, Pietro came running down the hallway.
"Have no care, my good friend," he panted. "Beatrice has told me of cabs at the ferry. It is but a dozen squares. I go to order a cab. Go you to your kind lady."
Greatly relieved, I returned behind the scenes. In the hall I passed Anselmo, and wondered why Beatrice had not sent him instead of her father forth into the wet; but I reflected that perhaps relations between the girl and her lovers might be strained. Thanks for her thoughtfulness were on my lips as I opened the door. They were never spoken, however. Beatrice stood by the partition, alone. Her hair, loosed from its knot, hung wild about her shoulders. Her arms were folded across her breast. One foot was planted forward, and I saw under it Deborah's fur cape.
"Beatrice!" I exclaimed. "What on earth is the matter with you? Where is Miss Speedwell?"
The girl stretched forth both arms toward me.
"You list-a me," she said. "You tink she lof-a you. It is not. It is I! I lof-a you. I 'ave lof-a you one year. You come one year ago—I lof-a you."
Anxiety for Deborah overcame my bewilderment. I stamped my foot upon the stage.
"Stop this nonsense, Beatrice," I commanded. "What are you talking about? Where is Miss Speedwell? Tell me at once!"
The girl thrust a hand into the bosom of her dress.