“I’m sorry I was short with you,” she said, awkwardly.
“Oh, it was nothing.”
The polite indifference in his tone rather piqued her. She was naturally a plain, anaemic girl and the heavy make-up of grease-paint did not render her more attractive at close quarters. The knowledge of this irritated her the more.
“You don’t seem to care about anything.”
“I don’t much,” said Joyce.
At that moment the leading lady came off the stage and passed by them as they stood leaning against the iron railings of the staircase. She was wearing the minimum of costume allowed by Celestial etiquette, and looked very fresh and charming.
“Oh, you are Mr. Joyce, aren’t you?” she said, pausing at the top of the stairs; and, as Joyce bowed,—“Some one told me you were a friend of Yvonne Latour’s.”
“Yes,” said Joyce, “I have known her for a very long time.”
“How is she? I have n’t seen her for ages.” She moved down a couple of steps, so Joyce had to lean over the balustrade to reply.
“She’s a dear little creature. I used to know her while she was living with that wretch of a husband of hers,” said the lady, looking up. “He’s dead, or something, is n’t he?”