Nell.
The royal box at the Imperial was available. So, incidentally, were more than half the stalls. The occasion, however, was demanding privacy.
So soon as the curtain rose, Crispin opened the door and ushered Eleanor into the withdrawing-room.
“Crispin, why have you done this? You know what I said.”
Standing still by the table, the girl made a pathetically beautiful picture. Her simple white frock, her short hair, her little folded hands, her high colour, the piteous droop of her lips—above all, the tense dog-like devotion of her big brown eyes lent her the air of a child that has pleaded guilty and come to judgment.
Willoughby steeled his heart.
“One can say things,” he said, “which it isn’t easy to write. Sit down, Nell.”
He flung himself into a chair and crossed his legs. Then he took out a cigar and lighted it carefully.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “your letter was rather a godsend.”