pinching the stuff, either. If you had only listened when he tried
to tell you, you mightn’t be in such a frightful hole. He was
putting the things back, as he said. I know all about it. Well,
what’s the answer?”
For a moment, Sir Thomas seemed on the point of refusal. But, just
as he was about to speak, his lordship opened the door, and at the
movement he collapsed again.
“I will,” he cried. “I will!”
“Good,” said his lordship with satisfaction. “That’s a bargain.
Coming downstairs, Pitt, old man? We shall be wanted on the stage in
about half a minute.”
“As an antidote to stage fright,” said Jimmy, as they went along the
corridor, “little discussions of that kind may be highly
recommended. I shouldn’t mind betting that you feel fit for
anything?”
“I feel like a two-year-old,” assented his lordship,
enthusiastically. “I’ve forgotten all my part, but I don’t care.
I’ll just go on and talk to them.”
“That,” said Jimmy, “is the right spirit. Charteris will get heart-
disease, but it’s the right spirit. A little more of that sort of
thing, and amateur theatricals would be worth listening to. Step
lively, Roscius; the stage waits.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
SPENNIE’S HOUR OF CLEAR VISION
Mr. McEachern sat in the billiard-room, smoking. He was alone. From
where he sat, he could hear distant strains of music. The more
rigorous portion of the evening’s entertainment, the theatricals,
was over, and the nobility and gentry, having done their duty by
sitting through the performance, were now enjoying themselves in the
ballroom. Everybody was happy. The play had been quite as successful
as the usual amateur performance. The prompter had made himself a
great favorite from the start, his series of duets with Spennie
having been especially admired; and Jimmy, as became an old
professional, had played his part with great finish and certainty of
touch, though, like the bloodhounds in “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” on the
road, he had had poor support. But the audience bore no malice. No
collection of individuals is less vindictive than an audience at
amateur theatricals. It was all over now. Charteris had literally
gibbered in the presence of eye-witnesses at one point in the second
act, when Spennie, by giving a wrong cue, had jerked the play
abruptly into act three, where his colleagues, dimly suspecting
something wrong, but not knowing what it was, had kept it for two
minutes, to the mystification of the audience. But, now Charteris
had begun to forget. As he two-stepped down the room, the lines of
agony on his face were softened. He even smiled.
As for Spennie, the brilliance of his happy grin dazzled all
beholders.
He was still wearing it when he invaded the solitude of Mr.
McEachern. In every dance, however greatly he may be enjoying it,
there comes a time when a man needs a meditative cigarette apart
from the throng. It came to Spennie after the seventh item on the
program. The billiard-room struck him as admirably suitable in every
way. It was not likely to be used as a sitting-out place, and it was
near enough to the ball-room to enable him to hear when the music of
item number nine should begin.
Mr. McEachern welcomed his visitor. In the turmoil following the
theatricals, he had been unable to get a word with any of the
persons with whom he most wished to speak. He had been surprised
that no announcement of the engagement had been made at the end of
the performance. Spennie would be able to supply him with
information as to when the announcement might be expected.
Spennie hesitated for an instant when he saw who was in the room. He
was not over-anxious for a tete-a-tete with Molly’s father just
then. But, re-fleeting that, after all, he was not to blame for
any disappointment that might be troubling the other, he switched on
his grin again, and walked in.
“Came in for a smoke,” he explained, by way of opening the
conversation. “Not dancing the next.”
“Come in, my boy, come in,” said Mr. McEachern. “I was waiting to
see you.”
Spennie regretted his entrance. He had supposed that the other had