"Shall—shall we go?" The face of the flesh-and-blood Mr. Heatherbloom was very red; he looked toward the door.
She did not answer; her eyes continued bent straight before her, and she saw the whole quick scene of the drama unfolded. Then the street became cleared, the fleeing figure had turned a corner as an automobile, not engaged for the performance, came around it and went by. A big car—her own—she was in it. She caught, like a flash on the canvas, a glimpse of herself looking around; then the scene came to an end. Betty Dalrymple laughed—a little hysterically.
"Oh," she said. "Oh, oh!"
He became, if possible, redder.
"Oh," she repeated. Then, "Why"—with eyes full of mingled tragedy and comedy—"did you not explain it all that day, when—"
Of course she knew even as she spoke why he could not, or would not.
"You had cause to think so many things," he murmured.
"But that! How—how strange! I saw you, and—"
He laughed. "And the manager told me I was a 'rotten bad' actor! Those were his words; not very elegant. But I believed him, until now—"
"Say something harsh and hard to me," she whispered, almost fiercely. "I deserve it."