She and Ronald were sailing for America, and were going straight to Liverpool after the curtain had fallen.
Eliphalet made great and tender preparations for that parting feast, and laid the table lovingly with his own hands. Then at six o’clock he lit the fairy candles that twinkled among the fruit and smilax, and waited. And Mornice arrived, dressed in her prettiest trousseau frock—all by herself.
“Where is Ronald?” he asked.
“I told him to stop at home, Pummy. I sort of guessed you want me by my lone.”
How many of these exquisitely-prepared little feasts are left untasted? We are in love—or have to say farewell—and we centre all our beforehand time setting out rare flowers, fair dishes and delicate appointments, to show how very greatly we care. And perhaps someone says, “How lovely of you to do all this to me,” or maybe breaks a white rose from its stem to keep in memory.
Then a hand stretches across the table, and another’s takes it, and the little dishes are all neglected and the fairy candles burn low. After the long, long silence and unspoken words of love or parting, it all breaks up into a commonplace putting on of coats, whistling of cabs, or catching of trains.
Arm-in-arm and hugging very close together, they walked to the theatre, and as the illuminated face of the Town Hall clock proved beyond question they were late, there was nothing for it but to run the last hundred yards.
Ronald Knight was at the stage-door and was cheered to see them arrive breathless and laughing.
Then Eliphalet stooped and planted a hurried kiss on Mornice’s cheek.
“God bless you, my boy,” he said almost fiercely to Ronald, and passed through the swing-door toward his dressing-room.