I shan't take any calls--after dying, it's too inartistic,
isn't it? And I never do. I'll see you for just a few more minutes here,
in this room, before I dress to go home."

"For a few minutes!" Raoul caught me up. "But afterwards? You promised
me long ago that I should have supper with you at your house--just you
and I alone together--on the first night of the new play."

My heart gave a jump as he reminded me of this promise. Never before had
I forgotten an engagement with Raoul. But this time I had forgotten.
There had been so many miserable things to think of, that they had
crowded the one pleasant thing out of my tortured brain. I drew away
from him involuntarily with a start of surprise.

"You'd forgotten!" exclaimed Raoul, disappointed and hurt.

"Only for the instant," I said, "because I'm hardly myself. I'm tired
and excited, unstrung, as I always am on first nights. But--"

"Would you rather not be bothered with me?" he asked wistfully, as I
paused to think what I should do.

His eyes looked as if the light had suddenly gone out of them, and I
couldn't bear that. It might too soon be struck out for ever, and by me.

"Don't say 'bothered'!" I reproached him. "That's a cruel word. The
question is--I'm worn out. I don't think I shall be able to eat supper.
My maid will want to put me to bed, the minute I get home. Poor old
Marianne! She's such a tyrant, when she fancies it's for my good. It,
generally ends in my obeying her--seldom in her obeying me. But we'll
see how I feel when the last act's over. We'll talk of it when you come
here--after my death." I tried to laugh, as I made that wretched jest,
but I was sorry when I made it, and my laugh didn't ring true. There was
a shadow on Raoul's face--that dear, sensitive face of his which shows
too much feeling for a man in this work-a-day, strenuous world--but I
had little time to comfort him.

"It will be like coming to life again, to see you," I said. "And now,
good-bye! no, not good-bye, but _au revoir_."

I sent him away, and flew into my dressing-room next door, where
Marianne was growing very nervous, and aimlessly shifting my make-up
things on the dressing table, or fussing with some part of my dress for
the next act.

"There's a letter for you, Mademoiselle," said she. "The stage-door
keeper just brought it round. But you haven't time to read it now."

A wave of faintness swept over me. Supposing Ivor had had bad news, and
thought it best to wa