“No—not now.”
Mornice’s face became serious at once.
“You poor dear, I am so sorry. Is she——?”
But Eliphalet took the book from her hand.
“Come,” he said, “let us hear those lines. We will go down this corridor, where we shall be undisturbed.”
As a rule, when you hold the book for someone who is almost a stranger they are anxious and awkward, but it was not so with Mornice.
“It’s just here where she enters with the Player King. There! Got it? Right-o.”
In a second she flung herself into the spirit of the scene. Gesture, voice and feature were alike unchained to the emergency of the situation. At the right moment she dropped to her knees and with outstretched arms poured forth the protestations of undying fidelity with ringing vibrations of emotion. When she had finished, she sprang to her feet and exclaimed:
“There! that’s the best I can do!”
Eliphalet was amazed. Never before had he seen anyone more liberally endowed with natural ability. And yet he knew this ability was misguided—that Mornice June suffered from a fatal facility.