“Damn it, don’t take up all the stage,” he muttered irritably under cover of the radiant expression demanded by the business.
He broke into his song, the chorus lining the sides. Then two minor characters appeared, and after some dialogue, interrupted by Chinese exclamations of delight on the part of the chorus, the latter danced off in pairs.
“I do call that cheek,” said Miss Stevens, as soon as they had reached the wings, “why could n’t he look where he was going to?”
“Yes, it was his fault,” said Joyce.
“That’s the way with all these light tenors—simply eaten up with conceit. If I were you I’d give him a piece of my mind and ask him what the something he meant by it.”
“I have n’t enough individuality here to make it worth while,” replied Joyce with a shrug of the shoulders.
The girl did not quite understand, but she caught enough of his drift to perceive that he was not going to retaliate. Possibly she thought him a poor-spirited fellow. “Oh, well—if you like being insulted—” she said, turning away toward a group of girls.
Joyce did not attempt to remonstrate. What did it matter whether a coxcomb had cursed him? What did it matter, either, whether he had fallen in Miss Stevens’s estimation? In fact, what did anything matter, so long as starvation was not staring you in the face, or your companion was not pointing at the trace of black arrows? He turned also and joined in desultory whispering with McKay and Blake. At the end of the first act, men and women went off at different sides to their dressing-rooms. It was only during a wait in the second act that he found himself next to Miss Stevens again.
“Are you going to see me home again tonight after the performance?” she asked.
“If you will allow me,” replied Joyce.