PublicBookshelf Book Club
Weekly tips on great novels to read.
As I left the box in the wake of Sir Cyril and Mr. Nolan, Sullivan
jumped up to follow us, and the last words I heard were from Emmeline.
"Sullivan, stay here. You shall not go near that woman," she exclaimed
in feverish and appealing tones: excitement had once more overtaken
her. And Sullivan stayed.
"Berger here?" Sir Cyril asked hurriedly of Nolan.
"Send some one for him. I'll get him to take Alresca's part. He'll
have to sing it in French, but that won't matter. We'll make a new
start at the duet."
"But Rosa?" said Nolan.
"Rosa! She's not hurt, is she?"
"No, sir. But she's upset."
"What the devil is she upset about?"
"The accident. She's practically useless. We shall never persuade her
to sing again to-night."
"Oh, damn!" Sir Cyril exclaimed. And then quite quietly: "Well, run
and tell 'em, then. Shove yourself in front of the curtain, my lad,
and make a speech. Say it's nothing serious, but just sufficient to
stop the performance. Apologize, grovel, flatter 'em, appeal to their
"Yes, Sir Cyril."
And Nolan disappeared on his mission of appeasing the audience.
We had traversed the flagged corridor. Sir Cyril opened a narrow door
at the end.
"Follow me," he called out. "This passage is quite dark, but quite