THE sound of rain-drops falling vigorously upon the glass roof awoke
her. A few wind-tossed, fan-shaped leaves tinged with hectic autumnal
colours spotted marvellously the skylight without, half-screening the
pale and monotonous sky beyond.
With a yawn she sat up amid her pillows, cushioning her chin on her
knees.
After the last night’s proceedings the room was a bower of gardenia,
heliotrope, and tuberose, whose allied odours during slumber had
bewildered just a little her head.
Flinging back the bed-clothes, she discovered as she did so a note.
“Sally,” she read, “Should you be conscious before I return, I’m only
gone to market, cordially yours, R. Iris. Such mixed verdicts! I’ve
arranged the early papers on your dressing-table. I could find no
reference to me. This morning there were rat-marks again, and part of a
mangled bat.”
“Oh, those ‘atmospherics’!” Miss Sinquier complained, finding
somnolently her way into the inner room.
Here all was Italy—Even the gauze-winged aeroplane filled with sweets
had an air of a silver water-fly from some serene trans-Alpine garden.
Dropping to a fine _cassoni_ she perused with contracted brows a small
sheaf of notices, the gist of which bore faint pencilled lines below.
“Her acting is a revelation.”
“We found her very refreshing.”
“There has been nothing like it for years.”
“Go to the Source.”
“An unfeminine Juliet.”
“A decadent Juliet.”
“... The Romeo kiss—you take your broadest fan.”
“The kiss in Romeo takes only fifteen minutes.... ‘Some’ kiss!”
“The Romeo kiss will be the talk of the town.”
“A distinctive revival.”
“I sat at the back of the pit-stalls and trembled.”
“Kiss——”
“The last word in kisses.”
“Tio, Tio, Io! Io! jug—jug!”
“Shakespeare as a Cloak.”
“A smart Juliet.”
“An immoral Juliet.”
“Before a house packed to suffocation——”
“Among those present at the Source last night were”—she looked—“were,
Queen Henriette Marie, Duchess of Norwich, Dismalia Duchess of
Meath-and-Mann, Lady Di Flattery, Lord and Lady Newblood, Mr. and Lady
Caroline Crofts, Sir Gottlieb and Lady Gretel Teuton-Haven, ex-King
Bomba, ex-King Kacatogan, ex-Queen of Snowland, ex-Prince Marphise, Hon.
Mrs. Mordecai, Lady Wimbush, Lord and Lady Drumliemore, Sir John and
Lady Journeyman, Lord and Lady Lonely, Lady Harrier, Feodorowna Lady
Meadowbank, Lady Lucy Lacy, Duchess of Netherland and _Lady Diana
Haviours_, Miss Azra, Miss Christine Cross, Sir Francis and Lady Four,
Madame Kotzebue, Comtesse Yvonde de Tot, Mlle. de Tot, Duque de
Quaranta, Marquesa Pitti-Riffa and Sir Siegfried Seitz.”
So ... she sneezed, all was well!
A success: undoubtedly.
“Oh God! How quite ... _delicious_!” she murmured, snatching up a
Cinquecento cope transformed to be a dressing-gown, and faring forth for
an airing upon the stage.
At that hour there wasn’t a soul.
The darkened auditorium looked wan and eerie, the boxes caves.
The churchyard scene with its unassuming crosses, accentuating the regal
sepulchre of the Capulets (and there for that), showed grimly.
“Wisht!” she exclaimed, as a lizard ran over her foot.
Frisking along the footlights, it disappeared down a dark trap hole.
Had Réné been setting more traps? Upon a mysterious mound by a jam-jar
full of flowers was a hunk of cheese.
She stood a moment fascinated.
Then bracing herself, head level, hands on hips, she executed a few
athletic figures to shake off sleep.
Suddenly there was a cry; a cry that was heard outside the theatre
walls, blending half-harmoniously with the London streets.
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