THE MAN AND THE MATINEE
BY
SYBIL STEWART
There was a ring at the door, a light tripping of feet up the stairs, a swish of skirts in the hall, then a quick little tap at Mabel’s door.
Mabel had looked up from her book at the first of these sounds with the eager interest an invalid must feel in any interruption to the long day. At each succeeding sound her face grew brighter until she cried a cordial, “Come in,” and, as the door flew open, added, “There, I knew it was you and I’m awfully glad. You are as good as a breath of the blessed out-doors.” And she kissed the newcomer’s glowing cheeks.
There was a general breeziness about Cora that justified Mabel’s words. She sailed into the room, veils fluttering and skirts rustling, kissed her friend swiftly and settled upon the arm of her chair like a bird on a bough.
“But, Angel of Peace, there’s nothing blessed about me. I’m in another scrape.” She opened her big eyes impressively upon her audience. The audience sat up in her chair and asked with interest, “What disagreeable thing has happened now?”
“Oh, I didn’t say it was disagreeable, did I? It wasn’t at all; at least it is not. Quite otherwise, really.”
“Well, Cora, you are the only person I know who can get into a dreadful scrape and have a lovely time there.”
“That’s because I feel so much at home. And then, some way, even if the scrape is personally painful I can enjoy its picturesqueness objectively, you know. That’s the way with this one. Personally it was very painful to be placed in such a position, especially with such people, you know.”
“No, I don’t know, but I’m dying to. I only live to hear your adventures. I never could have stood this sprained ankle if you had not come in to refresh me with your hairbreadth escapes. You are a perfect Sinbad.”
“Now you need not poke fun at me. Queer things do happen to me and I thought you liked to hear about them.”