He remained petrified an instant, dazed and staring. She passed through the door the groom held open. The doorkeeper, from his pigeon-hole, handed her some letters. Yes, he knew every trick of the shoulders, every turn of the neck. She stood surveying the envelopes. As the groom let the door swing back and turned away, he rushed forward and pushed it open again.
'Gittel!' he cried chokingly. 'Gittel!'
She turned with a quick jerk of the head, and in her flushed, startled face he read consciousness if not recognition. The reek of her old cherry-blossom smote from her costlier garments, kindling a thousand passionate memories.
'Knowest thou me not?' he cried in Yiddish.
In a flash her face, doubly veiled, was a haughty stare.
'Who is zis person?' she asked the doorkeeper in her charming French-English.
He reverted to English.
'I am Elkan, your own Elkan!'
Ah, the jostle of sweet and bitter memories. So near, so near again! The same warm seductive witch. He strove to take her daintily-gloved hand.
She shrank back shudderingly and thrust open the door that led to the dressing-rooms beside the stage.