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Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips), 1866-1946

"A Millionaire of Yesterday"

The audience knew what the woman in the play did
not know, that it was for love of her that the man had sinned, to
save her from a terrible danger which had hovered very near her
life. The curtain fell, the woman leaving the room with a final
taunt flung over her shoulder, the man seated at a table looking
steadfastly into the fire with fixed, unseeing eyes. The audience
drew a little breath and then applauded; the orchestra struck up
and a buzz of conversation began.
It was then that Ernestine first noticed how absorbed the man at
her side had become. His hands were gripping the arms of the stall,
his eyes were fixed upon the spot somewhere behind the curtain where
this sudden little drama had been played out, as though indeed they
could pierce the heavy upholstery and see beyond into the room where
the very air seemed quivering still with the vehemence of the woman's
outpoured scorn. Ernestine spoke to him at last, the sound of her
voice brought him back with a start to the present.
"You like it?"
"The latter part," he answered. "What a sudden change! At first I
thought it rubbish, afterwards it was wonderful!"
"Hubert is a fine actor," she remarked, fanning herself. "It was
his first opportunity in the play, and he certainly took advantage
of it.


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