As Rudolf entered, he had been half-way between window and table;
he came forward to the table now, and stood leaning the points of
two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white deal.
"Ah, the play-actor!" said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a
toss of his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll's,
rested in the pocket of his coat.
Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went
against the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor.
He was a little older now, and his temper more difficult to stir.
"Yes, the play-actor," he answered, smiling. "With a shorter part
this time, though."
"What part to-day? Isn't it the old one, the king with a
pasteboard crown?" asked Rupert, sitting down on the table.
"Faith, we shall do handsomely in Ruritania: you have a
pasteboard crown, and I (humble man though I am) have given the
other one a heavenly crown. What a brave show! But perhaps I tell
you news?"
"No, I know what you've done."
"I take no credit. It was more the dog's doing than mine," said
Rupert carelessly. "However, there it is, and dead he is, and
there's an end of it. What's your business, play-actor?"
At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the
girl outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and
strained her ears to listen more sedulously.
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