He even leaned
forward over the rail a little. For some reason he felt pleased and
flattered by the enthusiasm of the audience. In the half-light he looked
about at the stalls and boxes and smiled a little consciously, recalling
with amusement Sir Harry's judicial frown. He was beginning to feel a
keen interest in the slender, barefoot donkey-girl who slipped in and
out of the play, singing, like some one winding through a hilly field.
He leaned forward and beamed felicitations as warmly as Mainhall himself
when, at the end of the play, she came again and again before the
curtain, panting a little and flushed, her eyes dancing and her eager,
nervous little mouth tremulous with excitement.
When Alexander returned to his hotel--he shook Mainhall at the door of
the theatre--he had some supper brought up to his room, and it was late
before he went to bed. He had not thought of Hilda Burgoyne for years;
indeed, he had almost forgotten her. He had last written to her from
Canada, after he first met Winifred, telling her that everything was
changed with him--that he had met a woman whom he would marry if he
could; if he could not, then all the more was everything changed for
him. Hilda had never replied to his letter. He felt guilty and unhappy
about her for a time, but after Winifred promised to marry him he really
forgot Hilda altogether. When he wrote her that everything was changed
for him, he was telling the truth. After he met Winifred Pemberton he
seemed to himself like a different man.
Pages:
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33