With a cry she covered her face with one hand, the other was on the handle of the door. She staggered out.
“Did ever man utter words of such cruelty?” said Mr. Long when he heard the hall door close. “Poor creature! poor creature! And I trod on her—I crushed her. God forgive me! God forgive me!”
An hour later Mrs. Abington, shining out amid her jewels as a rose is resplendent amid the diamonds of a spendthrift morning, welcomed the arrival of Dick Sheridan with smiles and a gracious white hand for him to kiss. He kissed the hand, and noticed that the lady was wearing a gown which he had never before seen—something roseate and misty—the waves of dawn, out of which the goddess Aphrodite was in the act of rising; he saw her before him, and said so; he called her the Cyprian: she had been called that so often that she understood quite well what he meant.
“You have come in good time, my dear!” she cried. “If you had not come early I would have gone to you.”
“I got your note only a quarter of an hour ago,” said he.
“’Twas only writ half an hour ago,” she said, “and the express from Mr. Colman arrived within the hour. Dear Dick, we must fly to London post haste in the morning. They can do without me no longer. Mr. Colman implores of me to come. Ruin stares him in the face. I must have some pity for him.”
“The humblest thing that crawls—even the manager of a theatre—claims one’s compassion now and again,” said Dick. “Will you set out in the morning?”