Under cover of the applause, he turned to Max.
"Who is that? What is her name?"
"The divine Sara," Max answered, his eyes shining.
"I mean, what is her name off the stage, in private life?"
"The same," Max nodded with conviction; "Sara Law's the only name she's ever worn in my acquaintance with her."
At that moment, the applause having subsided to such an extent that it was possible for her to make herself heard, the actress swung round from the mirror and addressed one of the other players. Her voice was clear, strong and vibrant, yet sweet; but Whitaker paid no heed to the lines she spoke. He was staring, fascinated, at her face.
Sight of it set the seal of certainty upon conviction: she was one with Mary Ladislas. He had forgotten her so completely in the lapse of years as to have been unable to recall her features and colouring, yet he had needed only to see to recognize her beyond any possibility of doubt. Those big, intensely burning eyes, that drawn and pallid face, the quick, nervous movements of her thin white hands, the slenderness of her tall, awkward, immature figure—in every line and contour, in every gesture and inflection, she reproduced the Mary Ladislas whom he had married.
And yet ... Max was whispering over his shoulder:
"Wonderful make-up—what?"
"Make-up!" Whitaker retorted. "She's not made up—she's herself to the last detail."