But,
at any rate, she ought to have grown older beautifully, with charming
dignity and vivacity--in fact, she ought to have contrived to be old
and young simultaneously. Or, in the alternative, she ought to have
modestly retired into the country and lived on her memories and such
money as she had not squandered. She had no right to be abroad.
At worst, she ought to have _looked_ famous. And, because her name and
fame and photographs as an emotional actress had been continually in
the newspapers, therefore she ought to have been refined, delicate,
distinguished and full of witty and gracious small-talk. That she had
played the heroine of "Flower of the Heart" four hundred times, and
the heroine of "The Grenadier" four hundred and fifty times, and the
heroine of "The Wife's Ordeal" nearly five hundred times, made it
incumbent upon her, in Edward Henry's subconscious opinion, to possess
all the talents of a woman of the world and all the virgin freshness
of a girl. Which shows how cruelly stupid Edward Henry was in
comparison with the enlightened rest of us.
Why (he protested secretly), she was even tongue-tied!
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Machin," she said awkwardly, in a weak voice,
with a peculiar gesture as she shook hands. Then, a mechanical,
nervous giggle; and then silence!
"Happy to make your acquaintance, sir," said Mr.
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