CHAPTER VI.

“Mrs. Orme, now that you are comfortable in your wrapper and slippers, let me take down your hair, and then I will bring you a cup of tea; not the vile lukewarm stuff they give us here, but good genuine tea made out of my own caddy, that has some strength, and will build you up.  Rehearsals don’t often serve you so badly.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Waul, but the tea would only make me more nervous, and that is a risk I cannot afford to incur.  Please raise both windows, fresh air, even Parisian air, is better for me than anything else.”

“You have not seemed quite yourself since we came here, and I don’t understand at all why two nights in Paris serve you worse than a week’s acting elsewhere.”

“Have I not told you that I dread above every other ordeal the critical Parisian audience?”

“But you passed so successfully through it!  Last night the galleries absolutely thundered, and people seemed half wild with delight.  William says the papers are full of praise.”

Mrs. Waul crossed the room to lay upon the bureau the steel pins she had taken from her mistress’s hair, and the latter muttered audibly: 

“For me the ‘ides of March’ are come indeed, but not passed.”

“Did you speak to me?”

“There comes your husband.  I hear his slow, heavy step upon the stairs.  Open the door.”

As an elderly white-haired man entered, Mrs. Orme put put her hand.

“Letters from home, Mr. Waul?”

“One from America, two from London, and a note from the American minister.”

“You saw the minister then?  Did he give you the papers we shall require?”

“He has been sick, I believe, but said he would be at the theatre to-night, and would call and see you to-morrow.”

“Hear this sentence, good people, from his note:  ’Only indisposition prevented my attendance at the theatre last night to witness the brilliant triumph of my countrywomen.  Since the palmy days of Rachel I have not heard such extravagant eulogies, and as an American I proudly and cordially congratulate you——­’”

“Are you going to faint!  Stand back, William, and let me bathe her face with cologne.  What is the matter, Mrs. Orme?  You shake as if you had an ague.”

But her mistress sat with eyes fixed upon a line visible only to herself:  “Your countrymen here are very much elated, and to-night I shall be accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Cuthbert Laurance, son of General Rene Laurance, whose wealth and social eminence must have at least rendered his name familiar to all Americans travelling in Europe.”

“Be quick, Phoebe, and get her a glass of wine.  She has no more colour in her lips than there is in my white beard.”

“No—­give me nothing.  I only want rest—­quiet.”

She crushed the delicate satin paper in her hand, and rallied her composure.  After a moment she added: