"Yes—why not?" said Mrs. Anerley, almost in fright, fancying she had committed herself.
"You are very kind indeed," said Annie Brunel. "Actresses are not accustomed to such kindness—especially from strangers."
"But you mustn't call us strangers," said Mr. Anerley, good-naturedly. "We have the pleasure of knowing you very well; and in a few days we hope you will know something of us, if we can be of any service to you. To live in this house, alone, with these sad remembrances, is very unwise; and, in a day or two, you must leave it."
"Yes, I must leave it—because I must go where I can earn my bread. Has your son told you, sir, that I have left the stage? So I have; but at present I have no clear idea of what I must do—and yet I must do something."
"I am afraid you have placed yourself in a very perilous position," said Mr. Anerley.
"But I got to dislike the stage so much that I had to leave it."
"Why you should have left the stage!" exclaimed Mrs. Anerley, in open admiration, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Annie Brunel looked at her for a moment, and said, slowly—
"I have been very fortunate in giving you a good impression of myself. I thought most ladies outside the theatre looked down upon us theatre folk; and I was afraid you had come here only at your son's solicitation, with a sort of——"
"Ah, don't say any more," said Mrs. Anerley, with a genuine pain on her face. "It is not right to judge of people like that. I wish I could only show you what Dove and I would like to do in taking you among us, and making you comfortable, until you should forget this sad blow."