A. stood for Elsie April; and at the last moment,
deciding that it would be the act of a fool and a coward to decline
what was practically a personal request from a young and enchanting
woman, he had come to London--short of sleep, it is true, owing to
local convivialities, but he had come! And, curiously, he had not
communicated with Marrier. Marrier had been extremely taken up
with the dramatic soiree of the Azure Society--which Edward Henry
justifiably but quite privately resented. Was he not paying three
pounds a week to Marrier?
And now, there he sat, known, watched, a notoriety, the card who had
raised Pilgrim to the skies, probably the only theatrical proprietor
in the crowded and silent audience; and he was expecting anxiously
to see Elsie April again--across the footlights! He had not seen her
since the night of the stone-laying, over a week earlier. He had not
sought to see her. He had listened then to the delicate tones of her
weak, whispering, thrilling voice, and had expressed regret for Rose
Euclid's plight. But he had done no more. What could he have done?
Clearly he could not have offered money to relieve the plight of Rose
Euclid, who was the cousin of a girl as wealthy and as sympathetic
as Elsie April. To do so would have been to insult Elsie. Yet he felt
guilty, none the less. An odd situation! The delicate tones of Elsie's
weak, whispering, thrilling voice on the scaffolding haunted his
memory, and came back with strange clearness as he sat waiting for the
curtain to ascend.
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