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. But instead, he now seemed

resigned to her future career, talked cheerfully and predicted

unbounded success.

She had received very many letters and telegrams from other friends,

and some of them lay in a heap on the dressing-table. The greater part

were from people who had known her at Mrs. Rushmore's, and who did not

look upon her attempt as anything more than the caprice of a gifted

amateur. Society always finds it hard to believe that one of its own

can leave it and turn professional.

It was like Margaret to prefer solitude just then. People who trust

themselves would generally rather be alone just before a great event in

their lives, and Margaret trusted herself a good deal more than she

trusted any one else. Nevertheless, she began to feel that unless

something happened soon, the nameless, indescribable pressure she felt

would become unbearable, and as she walked the shabby carpet, her step

accented itself to a little tramp, like a marching step. The cadaverous

maid looked on with curiosity and said nothing. In her long career she

had never dressed a débutante, and she had heard that débutantes

sometimes behaved oddly before going on. Besides, she knew something

which Margaret did not know; for when she had come down to the theatre

in the morning with the luggage, she had met Madame Bonanni in the

dressing-room, and her late mistress had given her a piece of

information and some very precise instructions.

A moment came when Margaret felt that she could no longer bear the

close atmosphere of the small room and the curious eyes of the

cadaverous maid, watching her as she walked up and down. Madame Bonanni

would have made the woman go out or even stand with her face to the

wall, but Margaret had not yet lost that aristocratic sense of

consideration for servants which Plato ascribes to pride. Instead of

turning the maid out, Margaret suddenly opened the door wide and stood

on the threshold, breathing with relief the not very sweet air that

came down the corridor from the stage. It came laden with a compound

odour of ropes, dusty scenery, mouldy flour paste and cotton velvet

furniture, the whole very hot and far from aromatic, but at that moment

as refreshing as a sea-breeze to the impatient singer. The smell had

already acquired associations for her during the long weeks of

rehearsal, and she liked it; for it meant the stage, and music, and the

sound of her own beautiful voice, high and clear above the rest.

Lushington might think of her when spring violets were near him,

Logotheti might associate with her the intoxicating perfumes of the

East, but Margaret's favourite scent was already that strange compound

of smells which meets the nostrils nowhere in the world except behind

the scenes. I have often wondered why the strong draught that comes

from the back when the curtain is up does not blow the smell into the

house, to the great annoyance of the audience; but it does not.

Perhaps, like everything else behind the curtain, it is not real, after

all; or perhaps it has a very high specific gravity, and would stay

behind even if all the air passed out, preferring the vacuum which

nature abhors--nothing would seem too absurd to account for the

phenomenon.




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