"Even Isolde's husband couldn't hate her—or him—for a love like that."
And Winifred, with her cheeks all blubbered, swallowed hard as she applauded.
"Why don't we have such lovers nowadays? Even I could play Isolde if I could find a Tristan."
"Permit me," said Bob Fielding. But he was referring to the opera-cloak he was holding out for her.
Willie Enslee, however, shook his head contemptuously and made no pretense of applause.
"Can you beat 'em, Mr. Lord? They're never so happy as when they're crying their make-up off. They pretend they're blue, but they've been having the time of their lives."
And Forbes hated him for saying it. Then he noted that Persis was not applauding. She was pulling off a long glove slowly and wincingly. When it was off, she looked ruefully at her left hand and nursed it in her right. She glanced to see that the others were busy with their wraps, then she held her hand out where Forbes could see it; and gave him a look of pouting reproach.
His first stare showed him only that her soft, slim fingers were almost hidden with rings. And then he saw that the flesh was all creased and bruised and marred with marks like tiny teeth. He realized that it was his fierce clench that had ground the rings and their settings into her flesh, and his heart was wrung with shame and pity.
He saw, too, that on one of the little fingers there was a thread of blood. The alert old eyes of Mrs. Neff caught the by-play of the two, and her curiosity brought her forward with a question.
"How in heaven did you hurt your finger?"