Her fine eyes looked beautiful as, raising them fraught with soul, they met the veteran critic’s own.
XV
“OH, dear God, help me. Hear me, Jesu. Hear me and forgive me and be offended not if what I ask is vain ... soften all hostile hearts and let them love me—adore me!—oh Heaven, help me to please. Vouchsafe at each finale countless curtains; and in the ‘Potion Scene,’ oh Lord, pull me through....”
Unwilling to genuflect in the presence of her maid, who would interpret any unwontedness of gesture for first-night symptoms of fear, Miss Sinquier lifted her face towards the bluish light of day that filtered obliquely through the long glass-plating above.
“There’s a cat on the skylight, Smith,” was what she said as her maid with a telegram recalled her wandering gaze to earth.
It was a telegram from her father.
“Missed conveyance York,” she read. “Bishopthorpe to-night archiepiscopal blessings.”
“Ah, well, ...” she professionally philosophized, “there’ll be deadheads besides, I’ve no doubt.”
“Any answer, Miss?”