The critics left after the second act to damn the play at leisure.
Clavering remained in his seat. Forty minutes later, while the
performers were responding to faint calls and amiable friends were
demanding the author of the doomed play, the lady of mystery (who,
Clavering reflected cynically, was doubtless merely an unusual looking
person with a commonplace history--most explanations after wild guesses
were common-place) left her seat and passed up the aisle.
Irresistibly, Clavering followed her. As she stood for a moment under
the glare of the electric lights at the entrance he observed her
critically. She survived the test. A small car drew up to the curb.
She entered it, and he stood in the softly falling snow feeling
somewhat of a fool. As he walked slowly to his rooms in Madison Square
he came definitely to the conclusion that it was merely his old
reporter's instinct that burned so fiercely, even when he had prodded
Dinwiddie and shaken hands in a glow of anticipation. Certainly there
was no fire in his blood. His imagination had not toyed for a moment
with the hope that here at last . . . He did not feel in the least
romantic. But what man, especially after Dinwiddie's revelations,
wouldn't feel a bit curious, a bit excited? Thank Heaven he was young
enough for that. He must know who she was. Certainly, he would like
to talk to her. She knew the world, no doubt of it--with those eyes!
European women, given the opportunity, could cram more of life into ten
years than an American woman into forty. She had had her experiences
in spite of that madonna face; he'd bet on it. Well, he wasn't falling
in love with a woman who had too heavily underscored in the book of
life. But he enjoyed talking to European women of the world. New York
had been overrun of late with Russian princesses and other ladies of
title come over in the hope of milking the good old American cow, and
when he could divert them from their grievances he found them clever,
subtle and interesting. It was unlikely that this woman had a
grievance of that sort or was looking for a chance to get at the
generous but elusive udder. Her pearls might not be real, but her gown
was superlatively expensive, her evening wrap of mauve velvet lined
with ermine, and her little car perfectly turned out. He'd look like a
fortune-hunter with his salary of fifteen thousand a year and a few
thousands in bonds . . . not if he knew it! But find out who she was,
know her, talk to her, learn what he felt was an interesting
history--quite another matter.