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He had a long talk with MacConnell, but he got no word with Hilda alone, and he left in a discontented state of mind. For the rest of the week he was nervous and unsettled, and kept rushing his work as if he were preparing for immediate departure. On Thursday afternoon he cut short a committee meeting, jumped into a hansom, and drove to Bedford Square.
Presently he hailed a tall, bearded man, grim-browed and rather battered-looking, who had his opera cloak on his arm and his hat in his hand, and who seemed to be on the point of leaving the theatre. "MacConnell, let me introduce Mr. Bartley Alexander. I say! It's going famously to-night, Mac. And what an audience! You'll never do anything like this again, mark me.
Thank you for this walk, my dear. Go in and get dry things on at once. You'll be having a great night to-morrow." She put out her hand. "Thank you, Mac, for everything. Good-night." MacConnell trudged off through the fog, and she went slowly upstairs. Her slippers and dressing gown were waiting for her before the fire. "I shall certainly see him in New York.
Dear me, Mac, the girl couldn't possibly be better, you know." MacConnell grunted. "She'll do well enough if she keeps her pace and doesn't go off on us in the middle of the season, as she's more than like to do." He nodded curtly and made for the door, dodging acquaintances as he went. "Poor old Hugh," Mainhall murmured. "He's hit terribly hard.
It proved to be only a lamp-post, and they beat in farther from the edge of the pavement. "What do you mean, Mac?" Hilda asked nervously. "I was just thinking there might be people over there you'd be glad to see," he brought out awkwardly. Hilda said nothing, and as they walked on MacConnell spoke again, apologetically: "I hope you don't mind my knowing about it, Hilda.
He was the only thing she could see, for they were moving through a dense opaqueness, as if they were walking at the bottom of the ocean. "Oh, Mac, how glad I am! And they love your things over there, don't they?" "Shall you be glad for any other reason, Hilda?" MacConnell put his hand in front of her to ward off some dark object.
Don't stiffen up like that. No one else knows, and I didn't try to find out anything. I felt it, even before I knew who he was. I knew there was somebody, and that it wasn't I." They crossed Oxford Street in silence, feeling their way. The busses had stopped running and the cab-drivers were leading their horses. When they reached the other side, MacConnell said suddenly, "I hope you are happy."
Hilda pulled down her veil and they stepped out into the thick brown wash that submerged St. Martin's Lane. MacConnell took her hand and tucked it snugly under his arm. "I'm sorry I was such a savage. I hope you didn't think I made an ass of myself." "Not a bit of it. I don't wonder you were peppery. Those things are awfully trying. How do you think it's going?" "Magnificently.
The ones who have any imagination do." "Hilda Burgoyne!" Alexander exclaimed mildly. "Why, I haven't heard of her for years." Mainhall laughed. "Then you can't have heard much at all, my dear Alexander. It's only lately, since MacConnell and his set have got hold of her, that she's come up. Myself, I always knew she had it in her. If we had one real critic in London but what can one expect?
As he lifted her in his two hands he whispered: "You are powerful!" The last rehearsal was over, a tedious dress rehearsal which had lasted all day and exhausted the patience of every one who had to do with it. When Hilda had dressed for the street and came out of her dressing-room, she found Hugh MacConnell waiting for her in the corridor. "The fog's thicker than ever, Hilda.
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