The girl passed him quickly, motioning him to say nothing
till they should have got out of the place. He saw that she was
immensely excited, lifted altogether above her common artistic level.
The old lady said to him: "You must come home to supper with us: it
has been all arranged." They had a brougham, with a little third
seat, and he got into it with them. It was a long time before the
actress would speak. She leaned back in her corner, giving no sign
but still heaving a little, like a subsiding sea, and with all her
triumph in the eyes that shone through the darkness. The old lady
was hushed to awe, or at least to discretion, and Wayworth was happy
enough to wait. He had really to wait till they had alighted at
Notting Hill, where the elder of his companions went to see that
supper had been attended to.
"I was better--I was better," said Violet Grey, throwing off her
cloak in the little drawing-room.
"You were perfection. You'll be like that every night, won't you?"
She smiled at him. "Every night? There can scarcely be a miracle
every day.
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