On Monday night her gaze wandered instinctively toward Hubert’s accustomed place in the orchestra. He [57] ]was not there. Of course she had expected that, but she would have liked just one more look at him. Women have a strange way of wanting that which tortures them.
After the final curtain Kane appeared in her dressing-room and suggested that they take a drive up Riverside and a bite of supper somewhere along the road. He wanted to talk to her about the new play, about her route for the coming season and a date for her New York opening. His attitude had become thoroughly friendly and businesslike. He was too much the artist to allow failure in a lesser game to interfere with success in a greater.
It was nearing one when they drove back through the soft summer night. The air touched her face like velvet but brought no drowsiness to her eyes, no balm to the realization of blankness ahead—not of weeks or months, but of years.
With the passing of those years it was inevitable that she become Parsinova—with nothing left of poor, defunct Lizzie Parsons but the recollection of a love that had touched her life like the moon on a summer sea.
The Drive was still dotted with strolling couples oblivious of passers-by. Cars sped past them, wheels expertly manipulated by one hand. Mingled young laughter rang out like bells.
Kane’s rich voice flowed on, dwelling now on this, now on that scene of the play. She listened absently, eyes straying in a way that was absurd toward the magic of a June night, the enviable good fortune of those who could become part of it.
[58]
] “I shall give you even greater opportunities than you have had. I shall produce a piece of work that will be epoch-making,” he told her.
She told him how pleased she was.
When they arrived at her apartment she asked him not to trouble getting out of the car, and stood and watched it swing round the corner. Then slowly she turned and went indoors.