They both had neither eyes nor ears for any one but Mallida. Before she came on, the play lagged and filled them with impatience, but at her entry all was changed. Geoffrey felt thrilled to the core, as, at the sound of her well-remembered voice, he craned his head to catch the first glimpse of her sweet face and snowy draperies. Then a strong feeling of indignation took possession of him as he realized that, for the mere price of a seat, any fellow could avail himself of the privilege of basking in the sunshine of her smile, and drinking in the richness of her voice. And although he enjoyed the play and admired Celia’s acting, he hated to see her upon the stage, hated to think that for three hours every evening she belonged absolutely to the public; that her smiles and tears were alike artificial, mechanically assumed for their benefit. It seemed to him little less than desecration of the gifts with which she had been so liberally endowed.
Dick Stannard was wildly enthusiastic, and at the end of the first act, declared his intention of going behind. Geoffrey, for some inexplicable reason of his own, refused to accompany him, so, having thought out a few particularly flowery compliments to offer, he went alone. A few minutes later, however, he returned with an obvious expression of disappointment on his rugged face; and flinging himself on to the seat, uttered the inelegant but forcible expression of “Rot!”
“My dear boy!” expostulated Geoffrey. “Have you forgotten that you are in decent company for once?”
“No; but it is rot all the same,” returned Stannard, indignantly. “The fellow, whoever he might be, absolutely refused to take in my card. Said Miss Franks saw nobody at the theatre, not even her most intimate friends, and that I might possibly be able to see her by appointment at Mr. and Mrs. Haviland’s house in Acacia Road. I told him that I had just arrived from Australia, and was going on to the North to-morrow morning, but it made no difference. He said he had his orders which he was bound to obey, and as he wasn’t the sort of man to take a tip, all I could do was to turn to the right about and come away.”
“Which you did with a very bad grace, I am sure,” rejoined the doctor, with a smile. “Moral, don’t attempt to pry where you are not wanted.”
“It’s utter rot!” reiterated Stannard, emphatically. “What would it hurt if I just went and wished her good evening?”
But Geoffrey was secretly glad that the rules were so stringent, for they must save Celia the annoyance of interviewing many an undesirable visitor, he thought.
Meanwhile, behind the scenes, Celia was dressing for the second act. She would not have been so calm and collected, perhaps, had she known who was in the stalls. Her dresser was relating some of her humorous and varied experiences as she dexterously braided the girl’s long hair: and Celia, engaged in spoiling her complexion with grease-paint and powder, listened with genuine amusement. Mrs. Jackson had been chief dresser to Mrs. Potter Wemyss at one time, and was very proud of the fact. Many were the tales she had to tell of the great actress’s kindly words and deeds. “Mrs. Potter Wemyss used to say,” was her favourite mode of beginning a sentence; and “just like Mrs. Potter Wemyss” her ideal of perfection. Had Celia not known the lady in question, she would probably have grown tired of her name, but being a personal friend, her interest never flagged.
“You are ready early to-night, miss,” she said, as she put the finishing touches to Celia’s toilette. “It is a pity Mr. Haviland won’t let you see anybody. It would help to pass away the time. There’s that little Mr. Smiffkins always a-hanging round the stage door—the one who wears the overcoat with the tremendous fur collar and cuffs. He offered me a sovereign if I could get him an interview with you.”
“Did he really? What a waste of money!” was Celia’s comment.