It's all come so quick, Maggie, and it was over so soon that I hardly
remember the beginning.
Nobody on earth could have expected it less than I, when I came off in
the afternoon. I don't know what I was thinking of as I came into my
dressing-room, that used to be Gray's--the sight of him seemed to cut
me off from myself as with a knife--but it wasn't of him.
It may have been that I was chuckling to myself at the thought of Nancy
Olden with a dressing-room all to herself. I can't ever quite get used
to that, you know, though I sail around there with all the airs of the
leading lady. Sometimes I see a twinkle in Fred Obermuller's eye when
I catch him watching me, and goodness knows he's been glum enough of
late, but it wasn't--
Yes, I'm going to tell you, but--it's rattled me a bit, Maggie. I'm
so--so sorry, and a little--oh, just a little, little bit glad!
I'd slammed the door behind me--the old place is out of repair and the
door won't shut except with a bang--and I had just squatted down on the
floor to unbutton my high shoes, when I noticed the chintz curtains in
front of the high dressing-box waver. They must have moved just like
that when I was behind them months--it seems years--ago. But, you see,
Topham had never served an apprenticeship behind curtains, so he didn't
suspect.
"Lordy, Nancy," I laughed to myself, "some one thinks you've got a rose
diamond and--"
And at that moment he parted the curtains and came out.
Yes--Tom--Tom Dorgan.
My heart came beating up to my throat and then, just as I thought I
should choke, it slid down to my boots, sickening me. I didn't say a
word. I sat there, my foot in my lap, staring at him.
Oh, Maggie-girl, it isn't good to get your first glimpse after all
these months of the man you love crouched like a big bull in a small
space, poking his close-cropped black head out like a turtle that's not
sure something won't be thrown at it, and then dragging his big bulk
out and standing over you. He used to be trim--Tom--and taut, but in
those shapeless things, the old trousers, the dirty white shirt, and
the vest too big for him--
"Well," he said, "why don't you say something?"
Tom's voice--Mag, do you remember, the merry Irish boy's voice, with
its chuckles like a brook gurgling as it runs?
No--'tisn't the same voice. It's--it's changed, Maggie. It's heavy
and--and coarse--and--brutal. That's what it is. It sounds like--like
the knout, like--
"Nance--what in hell's--"
"I think I'm--frightened, Tom."
"Oh, the ladyfied airs of her! Ain't you going to faint, Miss Olden?"