“I am sorry,” she replied, turning away. “I will come back as soon as I can.”
He called out after her and she paused.
“Look here,” he said, “you were absent from the performance the other evening, and now you are skipping rehearsal without even waiting for permission. It can’t be done, young lady. You must do your playing around some other time. If you’re not here when you’re called, you needn’t trouble to turn up again. Do you understand?”
Her lips quivered and the sense of impending disaster which seemed to be brooding over her life became almost overwhelming.
“I’ll come back as soon as I can,” she promised, with a little break in her voice,—“as soon as ever I can, Mr. Heepman.”
She hurried out of the theatre and took her place once more among the hurrying throng of pedestrians. Several people turned round to look at her. Her white face, tight-drawn mouth, and eyes almost unnaturally large, seemed to have become the abiding-place for tragedy. She herself saw no one. She would have taken a cab, but a glimpse at the contents of her purse dissuaded her. She walked steadily on to Jermyn Street, walked up the stairs to the third floor, and knocked at her brother’s door. No one answered her at first. She turned the handle and entered to find the room empty. There were sounds, however, in the further apartment, and she called out to him.
“Arthur,” she cried, “are you there?”
“Who is it?” he demanded.
“It is I—Zoe!” she exclaimed.
“What do you want?”