Bouquets flew on to the stage
from the auditorium (a custom newly imported from the United States
by Miss Euclid, and encouraged by her, though contrary to the lofty
canons of London taste). The actress already held one huge trophy,
shaped as a crown, to her breast. She hesitated, and then ran to the
wings, and caught Edward Henry by the wrist impulsively, madly. They
shook hands in an ecstasy.
It was as though they recognized in one another a fundamental and
glorious worth; it was as though no words could ever express the depth
of appreciation, affection and admiration which each intensely
felt for the other; it was as though this moment were the final
consecration of twin-lives whose long, loyal comradeship had never
been clouded by the faintest breath of mutual suspicion. Rose Euclid
was still the unparalleled star, the image of grace and beauty and
dominance upon the stage. And yet quite clearly Edward Henry saw close
to his the wrinkled, damaged, daubed face and thin neck of an old
woman; and it made no difference.
"Rose!" cried a strained voice, and Rose Euclid wrenched herself from
him and tumbled with half a sob into the clasping arms of Elsie April.
"You've saved the intellectual theatah for London, my boy! That's what
you've done!" Marrier now was gripping his hand. And Edward Henry was
convinced that he had.
Pages:
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313