“It wasn’t me,” replied Penelope. “I did it because I couldn’t help myself. Just for a minute I was raised into something else. Perhaps it was Mrs Hazlitt’s voice; wasn’t she wonderful?”
“Yes,” said Honora, “but I am thinking of you as you are. Come and be congratulated: you are the heroine of the evening.”
“No, I cannot: I don’t want them to see me; I would rather just creep away and put on my plain dress and say good-bye to Brenda; I have hardly seen her all day.”
“Oh, but your sister has been quite happy: she has not been neglected, I can assure you.”
“Still, I must talk to her for a minute or two, and she has to catch her train. Let me go, Honora. Don’t tell any one that I cried. I am rather ashamed of myself: I don’t—I don’t quite know why.”
Honora bent down. She was taller than Penelope, and much more slim. She kissed the girl on her forehead. Penelope suddenly clung to her.
“Why didn’t you do it—you who could?”
“That is just it: I couldn’t. I don’t pretend that I am not more beautiful than you in face, but that has nothing to do with one’s personating the part. If you really feel it, you take the character of the part until it grows into your face. I could never have been Helen. You did it splendidly, no one could have looked more lovely. Just remember that you have had a great triumph and be happy and, Penelope—one minute—”
“Yes,” said Penelope, pausing.
“I want to have a talk with you to-morrow.”