paced the well-worn carpet, moving her
shoulders now and then, and her arms, as if to make sure that she was
at ease in her stage clothes.

There was no one in the room but she and the maid. She had particularly
asked Schreiermeyer not to come and see her till the end of the second
act, and Madame Bonanni stayed away of her own accord, rather to
Margaret's surprise, but greatly to her relief. At the last minute Mrs.
Rushmore had refused to come at all, and had stayed in France, in a
state of excitement and almost terror which made her very unlike
herself, and would have rendered her a most disturbing companion. She
could not see it, she said. The daughter of her old friend should
always be welcome in her house, but Mrs. Rushmore could not face the
theatre, to see Margaret come on in the last scene booted and spurred
like a man. That was more than she could bear. You might say what you
liked, but she would never see Margaret on the stage, never, never! And
so she would keep her old illusions about the girl, and it would be
easier to welcome her when she came on a visit. Margaret must have a
chaperon of course, but she must hire one of those respectable-looking
stage mothers who are always to be had when young actresses need them.
It would have broken her old friend's heart to see her daughter
chaperoned by a 'stage mother,' but it could not be helped. That much
protection was necessary. She had burst into a very painful fit of
crying when Margaret had left her, and had really suffered more than at
any time since the death of the departed Mr. Rushmore.

Logotheti had given no sign of life, and Margaret had neither seen him
nor heard from him since the eventful day when she had last spoken to
him in his own house. He would not even come this evening, she was
sure. He had either given her up altogether, or he had amused himself
by obeying her to the letter; in which case he would not present
himself till after the real performance, which was to take place on the
next day but one. He might have written a note, or sent a telegram, she
thought; but on the whole she cared very little. If she thought of any
one but herself at that moment she thought of Lushington and wished she
might see him again between the acts. He had called in the afternoon,
and had been very quiet and sympathetic. She had feared that even at
the last he would make a scene and entreat her to change her mind, and
give up the idea of the stage, at any cost.