“Half a minute more, Miss Ravenal. Telegram.” She handed a yellow envelope to Kim.
As Kim read it there settled over her face the rigidity of shock, so plain that the second-assistant dramatic critic almost was guilty of, “No bad news, I hope?” But as though he had said it Kim Ravenal handed him the slip of paper.
“They’ve misspelled it,” she said, irrelevantly. “It ought to be Parthenia.”
He read:
Mrs. Parthna A. Hawks died suddenly eight o’clock before evening show Cotton Blossom playing Cold Spring Tennessee advise sympathy company.
Chas. K. Barnato.
“Hawks?”
“My grandmother.”
“I’m sorry.” Lamely. “Is there anything——”
“I haven’t seen her in years. She was very old—over eighty. I can’t quite realize. She was famous on the rivers. A sort of legendary figure. She owned and managed the Cotton Blossom. There was a curious kind of feud between her and Mother and my father. She was really a pretty terrible—I wonder—Mother——”