"She sings even better than she acts," said Rosalind innocently. "Good Lord!" groaned the manager. "Well, what are they waiting for now?" It was the cue for an embrace, and Miss Vavasour was hanging forward to be clasped in the Tenor's arms, but the Tenor had a request to make-- "Mr. Quisby," he said, disregarding her, "I think it would be better if somebody read my part. I don't know how I shall get through to-night as it is--my cold is so severe." "Oh, my sufferings!" muttered the manager of the theatre. "Now the Tenor's got a cold. This is going to be a great draw, this show is!" "Don't you think you could just 'walk through' the 'business,' my boy?" Mr. Quisby asked. "The girl's a bit uneasy in the love scenes--she'll be all over the shop to-night if she don't know what you're going to do." "I am really very ill," insisted the Tenor feebly; "I'm not fit to rehearse, I ought to be in bed." "Oh, all right then," answered Mr. Quisby. He beckoned to the prompter. "Here, read the lines--give Miss Vavasour her cues. Do get on, Miss Vavasour, we shall be in the theatre till Doomsday if you don't wake up! 'We are alone at last'--go back, please." "'We are alone at last. Oh rapture!'" faltered Miss Vavasour for the third time, with the mechanical jump. "That's marked 'Kiss,'" said the prompter. He was a slovenly man with a dirty face. "I know it is," snapped Miss Vavasour. "Do let's get to the next line!" "I was 'elping yer," said the prompter, aggrieved. "If yer don't want no 'elp, sye so!" He read, "'My Prize! My Pearlikins!'" "'Sometimes,'" continued Miss Vavasour, simulating maiden modesty. "'I wonder if it's all a dream. _Why_ do you love me? You might have married Delicia, who has millions--_I_ am a very poor girl.'" "You're a very poor actress too," said Mr. Omee under his breath. "'Why do I love yer, sweetheart?'" mumbled the prompter. "'Your question reminds me of what the apple-blossom said to the moon.'" "Band cue!" shouted Mr. Quisby. "Have you got that, there in the orchestra?--'The Apple-blossom and the Moon,' song! Go on, Mr.--er--Song over. Get on with the lines." "Excuse me!" exclaimed the Tenor, reappearing. "That's a cue for the limelight. I don't think it has been marked; I didn't get it at the dress rehearsal." "Oh yes, it is marked," declared the prompter; "_I_ marked it." He referred resentfully to the typescript. "'Moonlight'! There it is, in its proper plice." "Its proper place is _on me_," said the Tenor. "Well, we'll see it's all right to-night," said Mr. Quisby, with impatience. "If you're so ill, you had better get home and rest your voice, hadn't you?" "I should be only too glad to be at home," rejoined the Tenor stiffly. "I just called attention to the matter for the sake of the scene.... Interests of the Show at heart!" "Where do I speak from now, Mr. Quisby?" murmured Miss Vavasour.