'It depends on what you call clever. She's got the gift of making the audience hug itself. You'll see.'
'See Milly on the stage?' Leonora asked uneasily. 'I hope not.'
'Why, my dear lady? Isn't she built for it? Doesn't she enjoy it? Isn't she at home there? What's the matter with the stage anyhow?'
'Her father would never hear of such a thing,' said Leonora. Towards the close of the opera she had seen John, in morning attire, propped against a side-wall and peering at the stage and his daughter with a bewildered, bored, unsympathetic air.
'Ah!' Twemlow ejaculated grimly.
A moment later, as he was putting her cloak over her shoulders, he said in a different, kinder, more soothing tone: 'I guess I know just how you feel.'
She looked at him, raising her eyebrows, and smiling with melancholy amusement.
In the corridor, Stanway came hurrying up to them, obviously excited.
'Oh, you're here, Nora!' he burst out. 'I've been hunting for you everywhere. I've just been told that a messenger came for Uncle Meshach a the interval to say that Aunt Hannah was ill. Do you know anything about it?'
'No,' she said. 'Uncle only told me that aunt wasn't equal to coming. I wondered where uncle had got to.'