Black.
Looking up she saw Lucy just home from rehearsal, going through a
series of pantomimic evolutions suggestive of a warrior doing battle
with incredible valor, and a very limited knowledge of the noble art
of self-defence.
"What have you got? Who is the queen?" she asked, laughing, as the
breathless hero lowered her umbrella, and laid her bonnet at
Christie's feet.
"You are to be the Queen of the Amazons in our new spectacle, at
half a dollar a night for six or eight weeks, if the piece goes
well."
"No!" cried Christie, with a gasp.
"Yes!" cried Lucy, clapping her hands; and then she proceeded to
tell her news with theatrical volubility. "Mr. Sharp, the manager,
wants a lot of tallish girls, and I told him I knew of a perfect
dear. He said: 'Bring her on, then,' and I flew home to tell you.
Now, don't look wild, and say no. You've only got to sing in one
chorus, march in the grand procession, and lead your band in the
terrific battle-scene. The dress is splendid! Red tunic, tiger-skin
over shoulder, helmet, shield, lance, fleshings, sandals, hair down,
and as much cork to your eyebrows as you like."
Christie certainly did look wild, for Lucy had burst into the room
like a small hurricane, and her rapid words rattled about the
listeners' ears as if a hail-storm had followed the gust.
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