He did not reply, but stood back to allow her to pass ahead of him up the stairs.
Why, Gareth, she exclaimed, as she entered the apartment, how nicely you've got it fixed up! I haven't been up here since . . .
Chet Porter used to chin himself on the trapeze, he finished her sentence quickly.
I've been here since then, she corrected him.
Again he did not reply.
What a lot of books you've got, Clara went on, her eyes roving about. I love to read.
Who's your favourite author?
Shakespeare, Clara responded promptly. I'm reading his plays straight through.
Who's your favourite modern author?
She appeared to be considering her answer. After hesitating a moment, she replied, Du Maurier, I guess. I just loved Trilby. She was a singer, you know.
Gareth opened a drawer in his old desk and drew out a big scrap-book. These are all opera stars in here, he said. I've cut them out of the Illustrated American, the Standard, Munsey's, all the magazines I could get hold of. As he and Clara seated themselves in adjacent chairs he opened the book, pointing out pictures of Melba in Pagliacci, Eames as the Countess in Figaro, Chartran's drawing of Jean de Reszke as Siegfried, Zélie de Lussan as Carmen, Clémentine de Vere as Doña Elvira,
