He walked down the
wings until he found himself close to Miss Honnor Cunyngham.
"Miss Cunyngham," he said.
She turned--her eyes somewhat bewildered by the glare of light on the
stage.
"Come back, please," he said. "I don't want you to see this scene--it
has nothing to do with the operetta--and it is dull and stupid and
tedious beyond description."
She followed him two or three steps, wondering.
"You say you like the music," he continued, here in the twilight of the
wings, "and the little story is really rather pretty and idyllic; but
they _will_ go and introduce a lot of music-hall stuff to please the
groundlings. I should prefer you not to see it. Won't you rather wait a
little, and talk about something?--it isn't often you and I meet. Did
you get many salmon after I left Strathaivron?"
"Oh, no," said she, still rather surprised. "Towards the end of the
season the red fish are really not worth landing."
"It seems a long time since then," he said. "I find myself sitting up at
night and thinking over all those experiences--making pictures of
them--and the hours go by in a most astonishing fashion. Here in London,
among the November fogs, it seems so strange to think of those splendid
days and the long, clear twilights.
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