Page:The Galaxy, Volume 5.djvu/286

274 hood, at the next. And then Dot must act, in whatever situation of life she was placed—necessity impossible to a man like Steven to recognize—must pose and think of effect, even with no larger audience than herself. Going about from room to room with pale cheeks and straight hair (the hairdresser was ordered for nine), sewing on buttons; jumping up and down on portmanteaus to make them lock; embracing Steven, asking his forgiveness for her extravagances in all this Dora was but enacting her small version of the kind of domestic repentance she had so often seen on the Parisian stage, to the best of her ability.

And"And [sic] what shall you do with yourself this evening?" asked Steven, as she clung to his hand at parting. "Order a carriage and go round to the Hotel Rivoli, I hope. You will be moped to death sitting here alone by yourself."

"I—if I feel better perhaps I may go out!" said Dot, with downcast eyes. "At present, all I feel inclined for is a good long cry, and then put my head upon my pillow and rest."

In saying which she spoke for the moment, absolute truth. As tears, however, would have had the effect of spoiling her looks, she kept them heroically back; contenting herself with standing for full five minutes at the window from whence she had watched the fiacre bear her husband away through the lamplight; after this, instead of resting her head upon her pillow, consigned it to the hands of M. Alphonse, from whence, at the end of three-quarters of an hour, it emerged frisée, gold-powdered, radiant under its little velvet toquet. "Une belle et gracieuse tête de Rubens," said M. Alphonse, stepping back and clasping admiring hands before his work, for M. Alphonse was a man of artistic culture. Whereupon Mademoiselle Aglaë and the mœnad cry, "Oui, oui, superbe, magnifique!" in admiring chorus; and Dora's husband, Dora's last faint qualms of conscience, are forgotten. The first round of applause, no matter whether from the gallery or the stalls, has reached the ears of the actress, and everything belonging to the world without, the world of actual dull reality, beyond the rouge and gold dust and footlights in which her soul delights, has passed away.

At half past ten came a ring at the door of the apartment, and Grizelda Long, cloaked and hooded, entered the little disordered salon, where, three or four minutes later, Mrs. Lawrence joined her.

"Bring in a light, Aglaë," cried Dot. "Turn on the gas and let us see how we look reflected from all the different glasses. Grizelda, dear, take off your cloak, and let us see you. Oh! very nice, indeed! Now, how do you like my dress? Do you think the most malicious person could say that there was anything wrong in my wearing it?"

Mademoiselle Aglaë had by this time turned on the gas, and Dot