VI

           

           AttheTheatreFrançais,thenextafternoon,Darrowyawnedandfidgetedinhisseat.

           Thedaywaswarm,thetheatrecrowdedandairless,andtheperformance,itseemedtohim,intolerablybad.Hestoleaglanceathiscompanion,wonderingifshesharedhisfeelings.Herraptprofilebetrayednounrest,butpolitenessmighthavecausedhertofeignaninterestthatshedidnotfeel.Heleanedbackimpatiently,stiflinganotheryawn,andtryingtofixhisattentiononthestage.Greatthingsweregoingforwardthere,andhewasnotinsensibletothesternbeautiesoftheancientdrama.Buttheinterpretationoftheplayseemedtohimasairlessandlifelessastheatmosphereofthetheatre.Theplayerswerethesamewhomhehadoftenapplaudedinthoseveryparts,andperhapsthatfactaddedtotheimpressionofstalenessandconventionalityproducedbytheirperformance.Surelyitwastimetoinfusenewbloodintotheveinsofthemoribundart.HehadtheimpressionthattheghostsofactorsweregivingaspectralperformanceontheshoresofStyx.

           Certainlyitwasnotthemostprofitablewayforayoungmanwithaprettycompaniontopassthegoldenhoursofaspringafternoon.Thefreshnessofthefaceathisside,reflectingthefreshnessoftheseason,suggesteddapplingsofsunlightthroughnewleaves,thesoundofabrookinthegrass,therippleoftree-shadowsoverbreezymeadows...

           Whenatlengththefatefulmarchofthecothurnswasstayedbythesinglepauseintheplay,andDarrowhadledMissVineroutonthebalconyoverhangingthesquarebeforethetheatre,heturnedtoseeifshesharedhisfeelings.

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