"It must have been in
eighteen--"
Rose Euclid abandoned the ice with which she had just been served, and
by a single gesture drew Carlo's attention away from the ceiling,
and towards the fact that it would be clumsy on his part to indulge
further in the chronology of her career. She began to blush again.
Mr. Marrier, now back at the table after a successful expedition,
beamed over his ice:
"It was your 'Constance' that led to your friendship with the Countess
of Chell, wasn't it, Ra-ose? You know," he turned to Edward Henry,
"Miss Euclid and the Countess are virry intimate."
"Yes, I know," said Edward Henry.
Rose Euclid continued to blush. Her agitated hand scratched the back
of the chair behind her.
"Even Sir John Pilgrim admits I can act Shakspere," she said in a
thick mournful voice, looking at the cloth as she pronounced the
august name of the head of the dramatic profession. "It may surprise
you to know, Mr. Machin, that about a month ago, after he'd quarrelled
with Selina Gregory, Sir John asked me if I'd care to star with him on
his Shaksperean tour round the world next spring, and I said I would
if he'd include Carlo's poetical play, 'The Orient Pearl,' and he
wouldn't! No, he wouldn't! And now he's got little Cora Pryde! She
isn't twenty-two, and she's going to play Juliet! Can you imagine such
a thing! As if a mere girl could play Juliet!"
Carlo observed the mature actress with deep satisfaction, proud of
her, and proud also of himself.
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