But even this she could have borne if Jim's
confidence had not been given to the general public; it was no longer
HERS alone, she shared it with them. And this strange, bold girl, who
acted with him,--the "Blanche Belville" of the bills,--how often he must
have told HER the story, and yet how badly she had learned it! It was
not her own idea of it, nor of HIM. In the last extravagant scene she
turned her weary and half-shamed eyes from the stage and looked around
the theatre. Among a group of loungers by the wall a face that
seemed familiar was turned towards her own with a look of kindly and
sympathetic recognition. It was the face of Clarence Brant. When the
curtain fell, and she and her father rose to go, he was at their side.
He seemed older and more superior looking than she had ever thought him
before, and there was a gentle yet sad wisdom in his eyes and voice that
comforted her even while it made her feel like crying.
"You are satisfied that no harm has come to our friend," he said
pleasantly. "Of course you recognized him?"
"Oh, yes; we met him to-day," said Phoebe. Her provincial pride impelled
her to keep up a show of security and indifference. "We are going to
supper with him."
Clarence slightly lifted his brows.
"You are more fortunate than I am," he said smilingly. "I only arrived
here at seven, and I must leave at midnight."
Phoebe hesitated a moment, then said with affected carelessness:--
"What do you think of the young girl who plays with him? Do you know
her? Who is she?"
He looked at her quickly, and then said, with some surprise:--
"Did he not tell you?"
"She WAS the adopted daughter of Mrs.
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