"Are you tired, Louis?" she inquired gently. "You are somewhat pale, and
you speak in that way."
"Did you enjoy the play?" he asked quietly, passing by her remarks.
"The play!" she echoed, and then a quick burning blush suffused her face.
The epilogue had wholly obliterated the play from her recollection.
"Oh, of course," she responded, turning from the rather sardonic smile of
his lips and seating herself on the stairs; "do you want to hear about it
now?"
"Why not?"
"Well," she began, laying her gloves in her lap and snuggling her chin in
the palms of her hands, "shall I tell you how I felt about it? In the
first place, I was not ashamed of Shylock; if his vengeance was distorted,
the cause distorted it. But, oh, Louis, the misery of that poor old man!
After all, his punishment was as fiendish as his guilt. Booth was great.
I wish you could have seen the play of his wonderful eyebrow and the
eloquence of his fine hand. Poor old, lonely Shylock! With all his
intellect, how could he regret that wretched little Jessica?"
"He was a Jewish father."
"How singularly you say that! Of course he was a Jew; but Jewish hardly
describes him, --at least, according to the modern idea. Are you coming
up?"
"Yes. Go on; I will lower the gas.
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