“But I made you, Ronny. What’s going to happen, supposing he’s lost everything. D’you know, I’m beastly frightened.”
“Let us go and talk to him, Morny.”
They went. He was sitting in his dressing-room, idly twisting a fragment of paper that had shown the night’s returns. He looked very old.
“Well?” he said, lifelessly, as they came in.
Then Mornice broke out with:
“Oh, we’re so frightfully sorry—we want to tell how frightfully sorry we are.”
He stretched out a hand, and gathered hers into it.
“Why, my dear,” he said, “you mustn’t take a bad notice to heart.”
“It isn’t that—I know now I ought never to have played the part—but it was my beastly conceit that made you do the play.”
“And I ought to be kicked for pushing it forward,” said Ronald.