“Madame—it is time to dress for the play—it is the first night of——”
“Hush, Ernestine!” she said hoarsely; and the girl was startled at the voice.
“Madame is ill?”
The girl ran to her as to a child.
“No——”
The wounded woman stroked the girl’s shoulders, and signed to a desk; the maid brought her pen and ink and paper.
After she had written awhile, the great actress handed the maid a book and a letter:
“Ernestine—this is like a play, isn’t it?” She smiled: “Burn that,” she said—“and post this.”
Mr. Quilliam O’Flaherty Macloughlin Myre was released from his bondage quite easily. He was cast off.
He read the letter, shrugged his shoulders, flung the scented notepaper into the fire. He had promised to read her letter to his admirers—when it came. He decided that he must invent one instead. Yet—this one—well——