“In the country I sleep because there’s nothing else to do. I get up early! What for? To see the same mist on the same mountains, and the same cows in the same field, and the same birds in the same trees; though, mot d’honneur, I was up and out this morning at eight o’clock, and played Romeo to Miss Hawthorne’s Juliet—at least, so far as a garden and a balcony could do it.”
“Who ever heard of a Romeo by daylight?” I exclaimed sarcastically.
“Let’s see what that love-stricken wretch does ‘neath the sun’s rays. We all know what he says and does in the pale moonlight.”
“He kills Tybalt,” I interposed, not utterly displeased in being able to show Mabel that I was on intimate terms with the Bard of Avon.
“And buys a penn’orth of strychnine,” added Harry with a grin.
“We know a gentleman who plays Romeo to perfection,” observed Mabel. “Such a handsome fellow! And the dress suits him charmingly.”
How I hated this Romeo!
“A Mr. Wynwood Melton.”
I knew it before she had uttered the words.
“An actor?” I drawled in a careless sort of way.