Over the top was written: "Gyp off to Pastures new," and underneath a
message which all the daily papers were to reproduce.
"I want this way to thank all the friends who have been so very kind to
me. We have had good times together. I miss you very much. I am
going to find new friends now, but one day, I think, I dance for you
again. I love you all. I kiss my hands to you. _Au revoir_, Gyp."
It was her vanity, that insatiable desire to figure impudently and
triumphantly in the public eye. He brought the paper to her. But at
the moment she was busy tapping feebly on the wall. She winked at him.
"Sh! I tell 'im I go to-day. I make an appointment--next week--ze
Carlton Grill--seven o'clock--'e 'ave to wait a long time, ze poor
young man. There, it is finished."
He showed her the picture without comment. He had to hold it for
her--hold it very close--for she had exhausted herself with that last
gesture of bravado. And then, as she smiled, a protest born of
gathering distress and doubt burst from him.
"Why do you allow--this--hideous, impossible pretence?"
He could feel the old woman turn towards him like a wild beast
preparing to spring. But she herself lay still, with closed eyes. He
had to bend down to catch the remote suffering whisper.
"_C'est vrai_. We 'ave--such good times. And they come 'ere--all
those kind people--who 'ave laughed so much--and bring flowers--and
pretend it is not true.
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