“Rosa! She’s not hurt, is she?”

“No, sir. But she’s upset.”

“What the devil is she upset about?”

“The accident. She’s practically useless. We shall never persuade her to sing again to-night.”

“Oh, damn!” Sir Cyril exclaimed. And then quite quietly: “Well, run and tell ‘em, then. Shove yourself in front of the curtain, my lad, and make a speech. Say it’s nothing serious, but just sufficient to stop the performance. Apologize, grovel, flatter ‘em, appeal to their generosity — you know.”

“Yes, Sir Cyril.”

And Nolan disappeared on his mission of appeasing the audience.