It was one of the most shattering shocks of all his career,
which nevertheless had not been untumultuous. And within his
dressing-gown--which nobody remarked upon--he was busy picking up and
piecing together, as quickly as he could, the shivered fragments of
his ideas.
He literally did not recognize Rose Euclid. True, fifteen years had
passed since the night in the pit! And he himself was fifteen years
older. But in his mind he had never pictured any change in Rose
Euclid. True, he had been familiar with the enormous renown of
Rose Euclid as far back as he could remember taking any interest in
theatrical advertisements! But he had not permitted her to reach an
age of more than about thirty-one or two. Whereas he now perceived
that even the exquisite doll in paradise that he had gloated over from
his pit must have been quite thirty-five--then....
Well, he scornfully pitied Rose Euclid! He blamed her for not having
accomplished the miracle of eternal youth. He actually considered that
she had cheated him. "Is this all? What a swindle!" he thought, as he
was piecing together the shivered fragments of his ideas into a new
pattern. He had felt much the same as a boy, at Bursley Annual Wakes
once, on entering a booth which promised horrors and did not supply
them. He had been "done" all these years....
Reluctantly he admitted that Rose Euclid could not help her age.
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