Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you. ” “And what are you doing here?” the lady asked. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. She began rubbing it with her pocket-handkerchief. Then they deliberated whether Bernard Shaw ought to go into Parliament. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. My reception at West Kensington you know of.
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