But that night, as once before, Goring tossed between sheets of finest linen and did not close her eyes.
In the morning she sent for Cleeburg.
He came, solicitous for her health, relieved by the fact [107] ]that her aberration of the night before had not in any way affected the play’s reception.
She met him, cool and smiling and looking very beautiful in a purple mandarin suit, the skirt of which was weighted with wicked Chinese embroidery. Her tapering white hands were ringless and low-heeled Chinese slippers made her look less tall. Greeting him, her hand clung to his.
She led the way into the drawing-room.
“’Dolph,” she began, and for the first time a rather plaintive note crept into her voice. “’Dolph, I’m unhappy.”
In the act of lighting the omnipresent cigar, he looked up, astonished. “Why—what’s wrong?”
“I’m unhappy—and for a reason you may not quite understand. But you can help make things right. You can make them all right, if you will.”
“Sure, Jane, you know me! Anything I can do—”
“It has to do with the play.”