“What did _she_ say?”
I got cold under my wrappings. Had I the courage to tell her? She
looked at me and gave a slight wry smile.
“Did she tell you that Berwick got away with it?”
“Some one did. I think it was Mr. Hazard, but he’s a painter and--”
She interrupted roughly.
“That’s nothing--a big bawling voice singing popular songs. If they’d
let me sing _Oh, Promise Me_ I’d have had the whole house.”
For the first time in my experience of her I saw she was not open with
herself. I knew that she had realized her failure and refused to admit
it. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, frowning, haggard and
miserable.
“I’ll get the notices to-morrow,” she said in a low voice.
It was horribly pitiful. There would be no friendly deception about the
notices.
“Vignorol’s arranged for several good men to go. He wanted their
opinions. They’ll give me a fine notice on _The Valkyrie_ duet.”
“Did that go well?” I asked just for something to say.
“Oh, splendidly,” she answered, without looking up. “It’s one of the
things I do best.”
The room was getting dim and I was thankful for it. The dusk hid the
drooping and discouraged face, but it could not shut out the voice with
its desperate pretense. It was worse than the face.
“Well,” she said suddenly, straightening up, “I’ll see Masters
to-morrow. He’s coming to bring me the notices.”
There was fear in the voice. I knew what the interview with Masters
would be, and she knew, too. In a moment of insight I saw that she
had been fighting against her dread all day, had come down to me
for courage, was trying now to draw it from my chill and depressing
presence. It was like a child afraid of the dark, hanging about in
terror and unwilling to voice its alarm.