This was most assuredly through no fault of hers. It was at
Shelbyville that she first spoke to him, first gave him the earliest
intimation that she even so much as recognized his presence in the
company. The house that particular night was crowded to the doors, and
she, completing a piece of work which left her cheeks flushed, her
slender form trembling from intense emotion, while the prolonged
applause thundered after her from the front, stepped quickly into the
gloomy shadows of the wings, and thus came face to face with Winston.
His eyes were glowing with unconcealed appreciation of her art.
Perhaps the quick reaction had partially unstrung her nerves, for she
spoke with feverish haste at sight of his uprolled sleeves and coarse
woollen shirt.
"How does it occur that you are always standing directly in my passage
whenever I step from the stage?" she questioned impetuously. "Is there
no other place where you can wait to do your work except in my exit?"
For a brief moment the surprised man stood hesitating, hat in hand.
"I certainly regret having thus unintentionally offended you, Miss
Norvell," he explained at last, slowly. "Yet, surely, the occasion
should bring you pleasure rather than annoyance."
"Indeed! Why, pray?"
"Because I so greatly enjoy your work. I stood here merely that I
might observe the details more carefully."
She glanced directly at him with suddenly aroused interest.
"You enjoy my work?" she exclaimed, slightly smiling. "How extremely
droll! Yet without doubt you do, precisely as those others, out
yonder, without the slightest conception of what it all means.
Probably you are equally interested in the delicate art of Mr. T.
Macready Lane?"
Winston permitted his cool gray eyes to brighten, his firmly set lips
slightly to relax.
"Lane is the merest buffoon," he replied quietly. "You are an artist.
There is no comparison possible, Miss Norvell. The play itself is
utterly unworthy of your talent, yet you succeed in dignifying it in a
way I can never cease to admire."
She stood staring straight at him, her lips parted, apparently so
thoroughly startled by these unexpected words as to be left speechless.
"Why," she managed to articulate at last, her cheeks flushing, "I
supposed you like the others we have had with us--just--just a common
stage hand. You speak with refinement, with meaning."
"Have you not lived sufficiently long in the West to discover that men
of education are occasionally to be found in rough clothing?"