Young Miss Rodgers, wearing defiance as a cloak to nervousness, knocked at the door of the ball-room and asked to see Mr. Masterson. The amateur door-keeper replied that the gentleman was busy. Miss Rodgers, with a smile that would have persuaded even a professional, induced the door-keeper to go and make further inquiries, and immediately that he had started on this errand, not only slipped inside the room, but at once slipped up on the polished floor. Now, she was a sure-footed girl, not accustomed to tumble, and it was fortunate, in view of her record, that no one happened to witness the incident. She had resumed an upright position when the doorkeeper returned.
“You go across to the drawing-room,” he whispered importantly, “and in about ten minutes he’ll see you! Quarter of an hour at the outside.”
The entire strength of the company was on the stage, and as she walked up and down the carpeted room, snatches of the dialogue came to her ears. The leading lady, and Masterson were about to go through once again the scene which had startled the girl on entering the ball-room; the lady suggested improvements. “When I rush into your arms,” she said, “how would it be for you to catch me like this—” here evidently followed an illustration—“and I’ll lean my hand on your shoulder like this”—another illustration—“and then we can start the duet.” Masterman’s voice said he was ready to try this plan. “That’s better,” remarked the lady presently, “but I think we may as well do it again. Give me the word, somebody.”
The girl peered through the cracks of the set scenery on the stage, and, her hand at her throat, watched and listened.
“That’s about right. Now for the duet. Play the symphony, please, Miss Jenner.” After this, “Thank you. Just once more.”
Masterson’s voice, a strong baritone, started:
“As I look into eyes that gaze up into mine,
I know that your dear heart is beating for me.
I know you’re as true as the stars that do shine,
As the sun and the moon and the earth and the sea.
Yet I ask for one word—”
Miss Rodgers, fearful of being discovered and unable to endure contemplation of the scene any longer, crept away to the other end of the drawing-room, where, regarding herself in the mirror, she found an extremely cross-looking face with a line or two on the forehead. As the lady’s reply rang out, the girl took up an illustrated journal from the table and endeavoured to divert her thoughts by concentrating on fashion, only to find that she could not be quite sure whether she was inspecting a page of drawings or a page of letterpress.
“For I love thee, I love thee, ’tis all I can say.”
The chorus, standing around with a strange want of delicacy during this affectionate argument, now threw off all restraint, and acknowledged the interest they had taken in the proceedings by singing confidentially to each other: