Herold certainly took the lady by the tips of her fingers and adventured with her into the Land of Tenderness—the Pays du Tendre of the old French romanticists. How could mortal man help it? The theatre and the theatrical world clacked with gossip. The unapproachable Leonora, the elusive Herold: it was brilliant high-comedy marriage. Already those not bound by romance criticized the possibilities of a joint management. Could he always play lead to her? Was not his scope, exquisite in it though he was, too limited? She was the Juliet of her generation. Would he be content to play the Apothecary? Sooner or later there would be the devil to pay. To the onlookers who see most of the game and to the overhearers who hear ever so much more, the affair between the two was a concluded matter; but the parties to the supposed contract still wandered in the sweet pastures of the indefinite. And this was through no fault of the lady. She did her best, as far as lay in the power of modest woman, to lead him to the precise highroad; but Herold remained as elusive as a will-o'-the-wisp.
“You 're not very responsive to-night, Walter,” she said during a wait in the first act, which they generally spent on the stairs leading from stage to dressing-rooms.
In the intimate world of the theatre the use of the Christian name is a commonplace signifying nothing; but a trick of voice may make it signify a great deal. Herold, sensitive, caught her tone and bit his lip.
“The actor's Monday slackness,” said he.
“Where have you been week-ending?”
“Nowhere in particular.”
“And you refused Lady Luxmore's invitation, knowing that I was to be there, in order to go nowhere in particular?”
“The floor of that house is littered with duchesses,” said he. “Its untidiness gets on my nerves.”
“That's too flippant, Walter. Why not say at once that you went to Southcliff?”
“That's nowhere in particular,” said he. “It's my second home.”