And yet, now, as her eyes followed Adrienne's slender figure, with its
curious little air of hauteur that always set her so apart from other
women, moving hither and thither on the stage, her hands clenched
themselves fiercely, and her grey eyes dilated with the intensity of
her hatred. Almost--almost she could understand how men and women
killed each other in the grip of a jealous love. . . .
The play was ended. Adrienne had bowed repeatedly in response to the
wild enthusiasm of the audience, and of a sudden a new cry mingled with
the shouts and clapping.
"Author! Author!"
Adrienne came forward again and bowed, smilingly shaking her head,
gesturing a negative with her hands. But still the cry went on,
"Author! Author!"--the steady, persistent drone of an audience which
does not mean to be denied.
Diana experienced a brief thrill of triumph. She felt convinced that
Adrienne would have liked to have Max standing beside her at this
moment. It would have set the seal on an evening of glorious success,
completed it, as it were. And he had refused to come, declined--so
Diana put it to herself--to share the evening's triumph with the
actress who had so well interpreted his work. At least this would be a
pin-prick in the enemy's side!
And then--then--a hand pulled aside the heavy folds of the stage
curtain, and the next moment Max and Adrienne were standing there
together, bowing and smiling, while the audience roared and cheered its
enthusiasm.
Pages:
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234