green-room. M. Paul introduced me. All stared and some tittered. It was a surprise: they had not expected the Englishwoman would play in a vaudeville. Ginevra Fanshawe, beautifully dressed for her part, and looking fascinatingly pretty, turned on me a pair of eyes as round as beads. In the highest spirit, unperturbed by fear or bashfulness, delighted indeed at the thought of shining off before hundreds—my entrance seemed to transfix her with amazement in the midst of her joy. She would have exclaimed, but M. Paul held her and all the rest in check.
Having surveyed and criticised the whole troop, he turned to me.
"You, too, must be dressed for your part."
"Dressed—dressed like a man!" exclaimed Zélie St. Pierre, darting forwards; adding with ofiiciousness, "I will dress her myself."
To be dressed like a man did not please, and would not suit me. I had consented to take a man's name and part; as to his dress—halte là! No. I would keep my own dress; come what might. M. Paul might storm, might rage: I would keep my own dress. I said so, with a voice as resolute in intent, as it was low, and perhaps unsteady, in utterance.
