“Vignorol’s arranged for several good men to go. He wanted their opinions. They’ll give me a fine notice on The Valkyrie duet.”
“Did that go well?” I asked just for something to say.
“Oh, splendidly,” she answered, without looking up. “It’s one of the things I do best.”
The room was getting dim and I was thankful for it. The dusk hid the drooping and discouraged face, but it could not shut out the voice with its desperate pretense. It was worse than the face.
“Well,” she said suddenly, straightening up, “I’ll see Masters to-morrow. He’s coming to bring me the notices.”
There was fear in the voice. I knew what the interview with Masters would be, and she knew, too. In a moment of insight I saw that she had been fighting against her dread all day, had come down to me for courage, was trying now to draw it from my chill and depressing presence. It was like a child afraid of the dark, hanging about in terror and unwilling to voice its alarm.
I sat up, throwing off my wraps and laid my hand on hers.
“Lizzie, don’t mind what he says.”
Her hand was cold under mine.
“He knows,” she answered almost in a whisper, “he knows.”