At her cylinder-desk, between two flickering candles, Mrs. Sinquier, while her coffee grew cold, was opening her heart to a friend.
“Do, Mike, keep still,” she begged.
“Still?”
“Don’t fidget. Don’t talk.”
“Or dare to breathe,” her daughter added, taking up a Sunday journal and approaching nearer the light.
“‘At the Olive Theatre,’” she read, “‘Mrs. Starcross will produce a new comedy, in the coming autumn, which promises to be of the highest interest.’”
Her eyes kindled.
“Oh God!”
“‘At the Kehama, Yvonde Yalta will be seen shortly in a Japanese piece, with singing mandarins, geishas, and old samurai—’”
“Dear Lord!”