I did not even stop to take off my make-up, for
though the play was an unusually short one, and all the actors and
actresses had followed my example of prompt readiness for all four acts,
it lacked twenty minutes of twelve when I was dressed. I had to see
Count Godensky, get rid of him somehow, and still be in time to keep my
appointment with Ivor Dundas, for which I knew he would strain every
nerve not to be late.
My electric carriage would be at the stage door, and my plan was to
speak to Godensky, if he were waiting, if possible learn in a moment or
two whether he had really found out the truth, and then act accordingly.
But if I could avoid it, I meant, in any case, to put off a long
conversation until later.
I had drawn my veil down before walking out of the theatre, yet Godensky
knew me at once, and came forward. Evidently he had been watching the
door.
"Good-evening," he said. "A hundred congratulations."
He put out his hand, and I had to give him mine, for my chauffeur and
the stage-door keeper (to say nothing of Marianne, who followed me
closely), and several stage-carpenters, with other employes of the
theatre, were within seeing and hearing distance.
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