“Well?”
“What an ornament is lost to the stage!” laughed the Don.
“The stage! Are we not enacting a real life-drama? and” (looking down) “to me a very serious one? And I have been looking for the denouement so long—so long!”
“That only comes at the end of the play!”
“And did you not hear what Jennie said just now? Another short week only is left! The end of the play has come. There is but time to come before the footlights and say our last say!” She paused. “Hast thou naught to say to me?” resumed she, with averted eyes, and in a stage-whisper.
“Naught to say to thee?” replied he, falling into her vein. “Can’st believe thy slave so flinty-hearted?”
“Forbid the thought!” cried she, in melodramatic tone and gesture. “No; long have I felt that thou had’st some sweet whisper for me o’er-hungry ear, but thy bashful reticence—I deny it not—did breed in me girlish heart a most rantankerous doubt. Speak! Remove this doubt rantankerous! But st! One approaches! Let’s seek some secluded nook! Beholdest yon fateful Argo? On!” And passing her arm through his, she advanced down the piazza with the tread and look of an operatic gipsy-queen full of mezzo-soprano mystery, which she is to unveil before the foot-lights; while he, to the delight and amazement of the spectators, strode forward in the well-known wide, yet cautious tread of the approaching bandit; to which nothing was lacking save the muffling cloak and the pizzicato on the double-basses.
Reaching the steps. “On!” cried she, flashing forth an arm. “Descend!”
“Encore! Encore!” shouted the audience, to which she deigned no reply, and the pair stepped upon the turf.
“Have you ever heard the ‘Daughter of the Regiment’?” asked she, halting and speaking in her natural manner. “But of course you have. Strange to relate, I have myself heard it twice. You remember the Rataplan duet? Of course. Well, I am what’s-her-name, and you are the old sergeant! Come!” And with that she strutted gayly off, rattling an imaginary drum with rare vivacity.