He was very silent at home those days, and week by week went by without improvement. He would sit with his hands listlessly down-hanging, and his eyes fixed in a vacant, dreamy stare.
Mornice did her best to brighten things up, but she did not understand very well the workings of his mind. Her belief in her own greatness, too, was slow to abate, and it was not until a notice appeared in the Manchester Guardian (most delightfully outspoken of organs) that illumination came, and she realised her own contribution to the tragedy. They gave the play one of its few good notices, but of her they spoke with a frankness that allowed of no misunderstanding.
Being by nature a good-hearted and dear little girl, she put her arms about one of the red fire-pails on a dark landing and wept with such pitiful vibrations that the water spilled over and mingled with her tears. Here Ronald Knight found her, and transposed her head to his shoulder.
“Everyone gets bad notices sooner or later,” he told her. “But listen, Morny, here’s something to cheer you up. My father has had an offer to produce for Raphaeli’s Film Company in America, and he wants you to come out and play ingénues, with a year’s guarantee.”
“D-does he?”
“Yes, and I should be going too. It’s in ten days’ time he’s sailing, just after we close here. There! You’re happy now, aren’t you?”
“N-no,” she sobbed, kissing him to cheer herself up a bit. “I’m miserable—about him.”
“So am I,” said Ronald. “Horribly.”
“He wouldn’t have done it except for me.”
“Don’t forget that I asked him.”