The star of Louise Moran had set. Not only was her
singing-voice a ruin, but the actress had grown coarse in visage. The once
willowy outlines of her figure had rounded vulgarly. On the face, audacity
had taken place of piquancy. Even the dark gray eyes, which somehow seemed
black across the footlights, had lost some lustre.
Why had the once lovely creature come back from Europe to disturb the
memories of her other radiant self, and to turn those dainty photographs of
her earlier person into lies?
Every man in the house was thinking this question at the end of the first
act.
She had another solo to sing in the second act. It was while she was
attempting this that my glance strayed to the man in the gallery. His face
this time surprised me.
It wore a look of ineffable sympathy and sorrow. Surely tears were falling
from the sad eyes.
This pity touched me. It was so solitary. The feeling of the rest of the
audience was plainly one of resentful derision at being disappointed.
After the performance I waited for the comedian. He was called before the
curtain and a speech was extorted from him.
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