Her hands closed suddenly on the arms of
her chair, and she lifted herself upright. I went on:—
"I was alone—the rain was falling." (She drew her great fur cloak closely about her.) "The night was coming on—and—and—I begged—openly—LOUDLY—as only a hungry child can beg."
She sat back in her seat with a pale, frowning face; while within the perfumed furry warmth of her cloak she shivered so that the diamonds at her ears sent out innumerable tiny spears of colour.
The act went on to its close; her attention never flagged. When I responded to a call before the curtain, she gravely handed me her bunch of roses.
A few moments later, by a happy accident, I was presented to her; when with that touch of bitterness that so often crept into her voice she said:—
"You hold your glass too steadily and at too true an angle to quite please me."
"I do not understand," I answered.
She smiled, her radiantly lovely smile, then with just a suspicion of a sneer replied, "Oh, yes, I think you do; at all events, I do not find it amusing to be called upon to look at too perfect a reflection of my own childhood."
At which I exclaimed entreatingly, "Don't—please don't—"