But each sentence went out of my
head before I had begun the next. I knew in the end only that, according
to all the critics, Maxine de Renzie had "surpassed herself," had been
"astonishingly great," had done "what no woman could do unless she threw
her whole soul into her part." How little they knew where Maxine de
Renzie's soul had been last night! And--only God knew where it might be
this night. Out of her body, perhaps--the one way of escape from Raoul's
hatred, if he had come to know the truth.
Of course the enquiry at the hotel was not for Ivor Dundas, but for the
name he had adopted there; yet when my servant came back to me he had
nothing to tell which was consoling--rather the other way. The gentleman
had gone out about midnight (I knew that already), and hadn't returned
since. Henri had been to the Bureau to ask, and it had struck him, he
admitted to me on being catechised, that his questions had been answered
with a certain reserve, as if more were known of the absent gentleman's
movements than it was considered wise to tell.
My servant had not been long away, though it seemed long to me, and he
had delayed only to buy all the evening papers, which he "thought that
Mademoiselle would like to see, as they were sure to be filled with
praise of her great acting.
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