enter.
"She is somewhere in the suite," he added, with a large wave of the hand
towards a door that was still oscillating. "Be here in a minit."
Clarence took in the apartment with a quiet glance. Its furniture had
the frayed and discolored splendors of a public parlor which had
been privately used and maltreated; there were stains in the large
medallioned carpet; the gilded veneer had been chipped from a heavy
centre table, showing the rough, white deal beneath, which gave it the
appearance of a stage "property;" the walls, paneled with gilt-framed
mirrors, reflected every domestic detail or private relaxation with
shameless publicity. A damp waterproof, shawl, and open newspaper were
lying across the once brilliant sofa; a powder-puff, a plate of fruit,
and a play-book were on the centre table, and on the marble-topped
sideboard was Mr. Hooker's second-best hat, with a soiled collar,
evidently but lately exchanged for the one he had on, peeping over its
brim. The whole apartment seemed to mingle the furtive disclosures of
the dressing-room with the open ostentations of the stage, with even a
slight suggestion of the auditorium in a few scattered programmes on the
floor and chairs.
The inner door opened again with a slight theatrical start, and Susy,
in an elaborate dressing-gown, moved languidly into the room. She
apparently had not had time to change her underskirt, for there was the
dust of the stage on its delicate lace edging, as she threw herself into
an armchair and crossed her pretty slippered feet before her. Her face
was pale, its pallor incautiously increased by powder; and as Clarence
looked at its still youthful, charming outline, he was not perhaps
sorry that the exquisite pink and white skin beneath, which he had once
kissed, was hidden from that awakened recollection. Yet there was little
trace of the girlish Susy in the pretty, but prematurely jaded, actress
before him, and he felt momentarily relieved. It was her youth and
freshness appealing to his own youth and imagination that he had
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