I was all down and out--couldn't
decide which bridge to chuck myself off from--and he lugged me into your
show. He said----"
"Well, what 'e say?"
Cosgrave blushed.
"He said: 'Let's see what going to the devil can do for you.'"
She jerked a jewelled thumb at him, appealing to Stonehouse.
"'E 'as cheek, that young man. 'E send in 'is card to my dressing-room,
saying 'e got to meet me. _Comme ca_! As though anyone could just walk
in! I was curious to see a young man with cheek like that. So I let 'im
come. _Et nous voila_!" She leant across to Stonehouse, speaking
confidentially, earnestly. "But you--_c'est autre chose_--_monsieur est
bien range_--an artist perhaps for all that--'e see me dance and think
perhaps, '_Voyons_--she cannot dance at all--nor sing--nor nozzings.
Just enjoy 'erself.' You think I don't deserve all I get, _hein_?"
"I think," said Stonehouse smiling, "that there are others in your
profession less fortunate, Mademoiselle."
As, for instance, that woman in the hospital--Frances Wilmot's protegee.
Queer how the memory of that ruined, frightened face peering over the
bed-clothes and begging for life should come back to him after eight
years. And yet the connexion was obvious enough. He looked at
Mademoiselle Labelle with a new interest. It was impossible that she
should have read his thoughts, but he knew by the little twist of her red
mouth that she had understood his insult. She seemed to ponder over it
dispassionately.
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