Mrs. Sixsmith stood transfixed.
The moonlight fell full on her, making her features look drawn and haggard.
XI
LIKE wildfire the rumour ran. The King had knighted—he had knighted—by what accident?—Mr. Mary, in lieu of Mr. Fisher, at Mr. Fisher’s own farewell. In the annals of the stage such an occurrence was unheard of, unique.
The excitement in the green-room was intense.
“M-m! He is not de first to zell is birs-r-rite for a mess of porridge!” Yvonde Yalta, the playgoers’ darling, remarked as she poised with an extravagant play of arms, a black glittering bandeau on her short flaxen hair.
“A mess of pottage!” someone near her said.
“You correct me? Ah, sanx! I am so grateful, so—so grateful,” the charming creature murmured as she sailed away.
From the auditorium came a suppressed titter.