We stood bare-headed and shook hands and watched her make a gracious exit. As soon as she crossed the tram-lines, she turned and waved her fingers at me.
"A charming woman," said I.
Lackaday smiled in his sad babyish way.
"Indeed she is," said he.
We drove into Royat in one of the cool, white canopied victorias.
"You know we are playing in a circus," he said, indicating a huge play bill on the side of a wall.
"Yes," said I. "On revient toujours à ses premières amours."
"It's not that, God knows," he replied soberly. "But we were out for these two weeks of our tour. One can't pick and choose nowadays. The eccentric comedian will soon be as dead as his ancestor, the Court Jester. The war has almost wiped us out. Those music-halls--of the Variety type--that have not been turned, through lack of artists, into picture palaces, are now given over to Revue. I have been here at Clermont-Ferrand many times--but now," he shrugged his shoulders. "I had an engagement--at my ordinary music-hall terms--offered me at the Cirque Vendramin to fill in the blank weeks, and I couldn't afford to refuse. That's why, my friend, you see me now, where you first met me, in a circus."
"And Madame Patou?" said I.
"I'm afraid," he sighed, "it is rather a come down for Elodie."