I nodded.
“What did she say?”
I got cold under my wrappings. Had I the courage to tell her? She looked at me and gave a slight wry smile.
“Did she tell you that Berwick got away with it?”
“Some one did. I think it was Mr. Hazard, but he’s a painter and—”
She interrupted roughly.
“That’s nothing—a big bawling voice singing popular songs. If they’d let me sing Oh, Promise Me I’d have had the whole house.”
For the first time in my experience of her I saw she was not open with herself. I knew that she had realized her failure and refused to admit it. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, frowning, haggard and miserable.
“I’ll get the notices to-morrow,” she said in a low voice.
It was horribly pitiful. There would be no friendly deception about the notices.