She wondered if she would ever dare to tell him the truth; if she
ought to tell him.
Pyne came to her dressing-room just before the performance began. He
had telephoned at an early hour in the morning, and had learned from
her maid that Rita had come home safely and was asleep. Rita had
expected him; but the influence of Monte Irvin, from whom she had
parted at the stage-door, had prevailed until she actually heard Sir
Lucien's voice in the corridor. She had resolutely refrained from
looking at the little jewelled casket, engraved "From Lucy to Rita,"
which lay in her make-up box upon the table. But the imminence of an
ordeal which she dreaded intensely weakened her resolution. She
swiftly dipped a little nail-file into the white powder which the box
contained, and when Pyne came in she turned to him composedly.
"I am so sorry if I gave you a scare last night, Lucy," she said. "But
I woke up feeling sick, and I had to go out into the fresh air."
"I was certainly alarmed," drawled Pyne, whose swarthy face looked
more than usually worn in the hard light created by the competition
between the dressing-room lamps and the grey wintry daylight which
crept through the windows. "Do you feel quite fit again?"
"Quite, thanks.
Pages:
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156