Eugene was solemn enough and blushed to his ears as he bestowed the flowers upon the stranger, who first motioned the others back and then acknowledged the tribute alone with profound courtesies to Mrs. Vickery and to unseen and unheard plauditors at the right and left. Her smile was the bizarre parody of innocence imitating sophistication. Then she threw off the mien of artifice and became informal and a child again. The game was evidently over.
Mrs. Vickery, realizing now that she was the belated audience at a tragedy, assumed her most lion-hunting manner and pleaded, meekly, “Won’t somebody please introduce me to Mrs. Siddons!”
Dorothy gasped with amazement and gulped with amusement at her mother’s stupidity. But before she could make the presentation the stranger cried:
“Oh, how did you know?”
“Know what, my dear?”
“That my name was Siddons!”
“Is it, really? But I was referring to the famous actress. She’s been dead for a hundred years, I think.”
“Oh yes, but I’m named after her. My middle name is Mrs. Siddons—of course I mean just Siddons. I’m a linyural descender from her.”
Dorothy broke in, seriously enough now: “Why, Sheila Kemble, how you talk! You know you’re no such thing. Your name is Kemble. Isn’t it, Clyde?”
Clyde nodded and Dorothy exclaimed, “Yah!”