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in her impassioned prayer, there was again something
familiar, a kind of wild wonder that she had had the power
to call up long ago. But she merely reminded him of Thea;
this was not the girl herself.
After the tenor came on, the doctor ceased trying to
make the woman before him fit into any of his cherished
recollections. He took her, in so far as he could, for what
she was then and there. When the knight raised the
kneeling girl and put his mailed hand on her hair, when she
lifted to him a face full of worship and passionate humility,
Archie gave up his last reservation. He knew no more
about her than did the hundreds around him, who sat in
the shadow and looked on, as he looked, some with more
understanding, some with less. He knew as much about
ORTRUDE or LOHENGRIN as he knew about ELSA--more, be-
cause she went further than they, she sustained the leg-
endary beauty of her conception more consistently. Even
he could see that. Attitudes, movements, her face, her
white arms and fingers, everything was suffused with a
rosy tenderness, a warm humility, a gracious and yet--
to him--wholly estranging beauty.
During the balcony singing in the second act the doctor's
thoughts were as far away from Moonstone as the singer's
doubtless were. He had begun, indeed, to feel the exhila-
ration of getting free from personalities, of being released
from his own past as well as from Thea Kronborg's. It was
very much, he told himself, like a military funeral, exalting
and impersonal. Something old died in one, and out of it
something new was born. During the duet with ORTRUDE,
and the splendors of the wedding processional, this new
feeling grew and grew. At the end of the act there were
many curtain calls and ELSA acknowledged them, brilliant,
gracious, spirited, with her far-breaking smile; but on the
whole she was harder and more self-contained before the
curtain than she was in the scene behind it. Archie did his
part in the applause that greeted her, but it was the new
and wonderful he applauded, not the old and dear. His
personal, proprietary pride in her was frozen out.
He walked about the house during the ENTR'ACTE, and here
and there among the people in the foyer he caught the
name "Kronborg." On the staircase, in front of the coffee-
room, a long-haired youth with a fat face was discoursing
to a group of old women about "die Kronborg." Dr. Archie
gathered that he had crossed on the boat with her.
After the performance was over, Archie took a taxi and
started for Riverside Drive. He meant to see it through
to-night. When he entered the reception hall of the hotel
before which he had strolled that morning, the hall porter
challenged him. He said he was waiting for Miss Kronborg.
The porter looked at him suspiciously and asked whether
he had an appointment. He answered brazenly that he
had. He was not used to being questioned by hall boys.
Archie sat first in one tapestry chair and then in another,
keeping a sharp eye on the people who came in and went
up in the elevators. He walked about and looked at his
watch. An hour dragged by. No one had come in from the
street now for about twenty minutes, when two women en-
tered, carrying a great many flowers and followed by a tall
young man in chauffeur's uniform. Archie advanced to-
ward the taller of the two women, who was veiled and
carried her head very firmly. He confronted her just as
she reached the elevator. Although he did not stand di-
rectly in her way, something in his attitude compelled her
to stop. She gave him a piercing, defiant glance through
the white scarf that covered her face. Then she lifted her
hand and brushed the scarf back from her head. There
was still black on her brows and lashes. She was very pale
and her face was drawn and deeply lined. She looked, the
doctor told himself with a sinking heart, forty years old.
Her suspicious, mystified stare cleared slowly.
"Pardon me," the doctor murmured, not knowing just
how to address her here before the porters, "I came up
from the opera. I merely wanted to say good-night to
you."
Without speaking, still looking incredulous, she pushed
him into the elevator. She kept her hand on his arm while
the cage shot up, and she looked away from him, frowning,
as if she were trying to remember or realize something.
When the cage stopped, she pushed him out of the elevator
through another door, which a maid opened, into a square
hall. There she sank down on a chair and looked up at
him.
"Why didn't you let me know?" she asked in a hoarse
voice.
Archie heard himself laughing the old, embarrassed
laugh that seldom happened to him now. "Oh, I wanted
to take my chance with you, like anybody else. It's been
so long, now!"
She took his hand through her thick glove and her head
dropped forward. "Yes, it has been long," she said in the
same husky voice, "and so much has happened."
"And you are so tired, and I am a clumsy old fellow to
break in on you to-night," the doctor added sympathetic-
ally. "Forgive me, this time." He bent over and put his
hand soothingly on her shoulder. He felt a strong shudder
run through her from head to foot.
Still bundled in her fur coat as she was, she threw both
arms about him and hugged him. "Oh, Dr. Archie,
DR. ARCHIE,"--she shook him,--"don't let me go. Hold
on, now you're here," she laughed, breaking away from
him at the same moment and sliding out of her fur coat.
She left it for the maid to pick up and pushed the doctor
into the sitting-room, where she turned on the lights. "Let
me LOOK at you. Yes; hands, feet, head, shoulders--just
the same. You've grown no older. You can't say as much
for me, can you?"
She was standing in the middle of the room, in a white
silk shirtwaist and a short black velvet skirt, which some-
how suggested that they had `cut off her petticoats all
round about.' She looked distinctly clipped and plucked.
Her hair was parted in the middle and done very close to
her head, as she had worn it under the wig. She looked
like a fugitive, who had escaped from something in clothes
caught up at hazard. It flashed across Dr. Archie that she
was running away from the other woman down at the
opera house, who had used her hardly.
He took a step toward her. "I can't tell a thing in the
world about you, Thea--if I may still call you that."
She took hold of the collar of his overcoat. "Yes, call
me that. Do: I like to hear it. You frighten me a little,
but I expect I frighten you more. I'm always a scarecrow
after I sing a long part like that--so high, too." She
absently pulled out the handkerchief that protruded from
his breast pocket and began to wipe the black paint off her
eyebrows and lashes. "I can't take you in much to-night,
but I must see you for a little while." She pushed him to a
chair. "I shall be more recognizable to-morrow. You
mustn't think of me as you see me to-night. Come at four
to-morrow afternoon and have tea with me. Can you?
That's good."
She sat down in a low chair beside him and leaned for-
ward, drawing her shoulders together. She seemed to him
inappropriately young and inappropriately old, shorn of
her long tresses at one end and of her long robes at the
other.
"How do you happen to be here?" she asked abruptly.
"How can you leave a silver mine? I couldn't! Sure
nobody'll cheat you? But you can explain everything to-
morrow." She paused. "You remember how you sewed
me up in a poultice, once? I wish you could to-night. I
need a poultice, from top to toe. Something very disagree-
able happened down there. You said you were out front?
Oh, don't say anything about it. I always know exactly
how it goes, unfortunately. I was rotten in the balcony.
I never get that. You didn't notice it? Probably not, but
I did."
Here the maid appeared at the door and her mistress
rose. "My supper? Very well, I'll come. I'd ask you to
stay, doctor, but there wouldn't be enough for two. They
seldom send up enough for one,"--she spoke bitterly.
"I haven't got a sense of you yet,"--turning directly to
Archie again. "You haven't been here. You've only an-
nounced yourself, and told me you are coming to-morrow.
You haven't seen me, either. This is not I. But I'll be
here waiting for you to-morrow, my whole works! Good-
night, till then." She patted him absently on the sleeve
and gave him a little shove toward the door.
V
WHEN Archie got back to his hotel at two o'clock in
the morning, he found Fred Ottenburg's card under
his door, with a message scribbled across the top: "When
you come in, please call up room 811, this hotel." A mo-
ment later Fred's voice reached him over the telephone.
"That you, Archie? Won't you come up? I'm having
some supper and I'd like company. Late? What does that
matter? I won't keep you long."
Archie dropped his overcoat and set out for room 811.
He found Ottenburg in the act of touching a match to a
chafing-dish, at a table laid for two in his sitting-room.
"I'm catering here," he announced cheerfully. "I let the
waiter off at midnight, after he'd set me up. You'll have
to account for yourself, Archie."
The doctor laughed, pointing to three wine-coolers under
the table. "Are you expecting guests?"
"Yes, two." Ottenburg held up two fingers,--"you,
and my higher self. He's a thirsty boy, and I don't invite
him often. He has been known to give me a headache.
Now, where have you been, Archie, until this shocking
hour?"
"Bah, you've been banting!" the doctor exclaimed,
pulling out his white gloves as he searched for his handker-
chief and throwing them into a chair. Ottenburg was in
evening clothes and very pointed dress shoes. His white
waistcoat, upon which the doctor had fixed a challenging
eye, went down straight from the top button, and he wore
a camelia. He was conspicuously brushed and trimmed
and polished. His smoothly controlled excitement was
wholly different from his usual easy cordiality, though he
had his face, as well as his figure, well in hand. On the
serving-table there was an empty champagne pint and a
glass. He had been having a little starter, the doctor told
himself, ...
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