"Shall I put some more coal on the fire?" Edward Henry suggested.
"Perhaps I'd better ring," she hesitated.
"No, I'll do it."
He put coal on the fire.
"And if you'd feel easier with that flannel round your head, please do
put it on again."
"Well," she said, "I will. My mother used to say there was naught like
red flannel for a cold."
With an actress's skill she arranged the flannel, and from its
encircling folds her face emerged bewitching--and she knew it. Her
complexion had suffered in ten years of the road, but its extreme
beauty could not yet be denied. And Edward Henry thought:
"All the _really_ pretty girls come from the Midlands!"
"Here I am rambling on," she said. "I always was a rare rambler. What
do you want me to do?"
"Exert your influence," he replied. "Don't you think it's rather hard
on Rose Euclid--treating her like this? Of course people say all sorts
of things about Rose Euclid--"
"I won't hear a word against Rose Euclid," cried Lady Woldo. "Whenever
she was on tour, if she knew any of us were resting in the town where
she was she'd send us seats. And many's the time I've cried and cried
at her acting. And then she's the life and soul of the Theatrical
Ladies' Guild."
"And isn't that your husband's signature?" he demanded, showing the
precious option.
"Of course it is.
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