“And you won’t think it’s got anything to do with that silly old joke...?”
He was really perplexed.
“You know, when they say: ‘I’ll be a sister to you!’” She was bubbling over with the old merriment now. “Just to make you keep at a distance, you know.”
“Oh—no, I’ll be sure it hasn’t anything to do with that.”
He regarded her almost dreamily as she turned again to his mother and Flora. He was thinking of the amazing buoyancy, of the disconcerting, almost estranging humor which lay always just beneath the surface; of her fine courage; of the ineradicable instinct which made everything a sort of play. They would be hers always. Or would there come a time when she would lose them? He wondered.
“There is our number!” interrupted Peter Addis, who had been listening to the voice of the announcers. He had brought the party to the theatre in his own car.
There was a reluctant movement toward the theatre.
“... Oh, a matinée performance now and then, if she likes,” Thornburg was explaining to Baron. “But for a few years, at least, that will be all. She’s going to have the things she’s had to go without all her life.”
They followed the line of the wall around toward the front exit. The orchestra had quit playing. The time had come to extinguish the lights.
But after the others had gone Baron stood a moment alone. He looked thoughtfully toward the upper right-hand box.