“Miss Grey is on the stage.”

Killigrew roared with laughter.  “You hear, Ishmael; here’s your chance.  You were saying you didn’t know any actresses, and now here’s Carminow with one up his sleeve all ready for you.  Tell us all about it, old chap!”

“I will, if only to stop your stupid little mind from wunning along its accustomed dirty gwoove,” answered Carminow sententiously.  “Miss Grey is the daughter of a clergyman—­”

“They all are.”

“She is an orphan, that is to say, as good as one, for her mother is dead and her father too poor to support her.  She works very hard when she can get any work, which I am sowwy to say is not often, and she is as good as she is clever.  I should be vewy glad if I could put her in the way of more work when the play she is in is taken off, and I thought you, Killigrew, who know so many people—­”

“Artful old bird!  So that’s what you’d got in your mind, is it?  Well I can’t do anything till I’ve seen the lady, can I?  Even an angel in a poke—­”

The singing had ceased, and in the little silence there came a knock at the sitting-room door.  Carminow had called out “Come in” automatically before a sudden idea sent him to his feet.  He was too late; the door had opened and a young lady in grey stood hesitating on the threshold.

CHAPTER IX

HIDDEN SPRINGS

She stood still, dismayed, her hand still on the doorknob, obviously distressed at the unexpected company in which she found herself.

“Miss Grey ... do please come in ... is there anything I can do ...?” mumbled Carminow in great agitation, pushing a chair forward and then pulling it back again indeterminedly.

“I’m so sorry—­” began the low full voice, richer in speech than in song.  “I’d no idea—­I only wondered whether you could—­but it’s nothing.”

“Anything,” Carminow assured her distractedly; “but please permit me to introduce my friends ...  Mr. Killigrew, Mr. Ruan—­Miss Grey.”

Everyone bowed, and then Miss Grey said simply:  “It was only that my lamp has gone out; you know there isn’t any gas on my floor, and I remembered you had paraffin for your reading lamp....  I’m so afraid of the dark.  I know it’s very silly....”

“Not at all, very natural, I’m sure.  You can have the whole lamp, Miss Grey, but you must let me clean it.  It might smell.  Yes, please, I insist.  You must sit down here in the light while I do it.  I’m afraid it’s dweadfully smoky.  Killigrew, do open the window—­”

So he fussed, while Miss Grey, with a murmured thanks, sank into the chair Ishmael shyly offered her and waited very simply, her hands folded on her lap.  There was a simplicity, a lack of any self-consciousness, in her whole manner, so Ishmael, used to Phoebe and Vassie—­neither of whom was the same in men’s company that she was out of it—­told himself.  This girl seemed divinely unaware even