She turned, saw the hand and put hers into it; then, for the first time smiled, but not with her habitual rich glow.
“Good-by. I’d ask you to stay but there’s really too much to do. I’ve got to have to-morrow free to finish up in.”
The hands separated and dropped. His back was toward me and I was glad of it.
“Perhaps we’ll meet again some day.”
“Oh, surely.” The abstraction of her look vanished, her smile flashed out brilliant and dazzling. “But not here, not this way. You’ll see me soon in my right place—behind the footlights.”
He murmured a response and moved toward the door. She turned back to the trunk, pressing on it and then drawing back and pressing again. He passed me with a low “Good night, Evie,” and I answered in the same tone.
He was at the door when she ceased her efforts, and drawing herself up with a deep breath, called peremptorily:
“Come here, Mr. Clements.”
He stopped, the door-knob in his hand.
“What is it, Miss Harris?”