(Vapid lines out of the Spanish Tragedy seemed foolish there backstage and could not matter less as Ellen and I drove to her apartment—in her red carriage, swaying through the rain.
Her fireplace was stacked with flame. Her servants withdrew and she leaned against her marble mantel, breast leaning forward, her dress low, shoulders and neck bare, such ivory.
Her cousin had accompanied us in the carriage; now we could talk:
“I hadn’t expected you in London tonight,” I said.
“I came from Dover, yesterday, late yesterday” she said.
“From your brother’s place at St. Cloud?”
“Yes. A hard trip across the channel and hard to be away so long from you... My dear, this play’s better than the last. How you make those Venetians live! They’re like so many I’ve known... You must have known them too...”
“Darling, I like your hair this way. French? Your hairdresser really knows...”
“Will, tell me that you love me. I love you.”
“Should I?”