The Humorist
nately, and with the faintest encouragement she put her arm round Drusilla's waist.
We tried to cheer them up, gave them the best hot lunch the hotel could manage, also champagne—of a kind, and afterward Miss Fitzgerald sang to us in the long empty coffee-room while Mr. Delamere vamped her accompaniments. She had a strong soprano voice, and her songs were of the musical comedies plaintive ditties of the love-affairs of butterflies and bees. I think her repertory held other items, but she sang for Drusilla's benefit, and toward tea-time the spirits of our wandering ministrels rose considerably, and then it was that I saw how little hope there was of the Reverend Fitzgerald welcoming home his prodigal Dolly; for the life held her fast enchained. Obviously she thought and talked and lived only for the "show" of the moment. Now that there was no show, there was still hope.
"I should like to run a little show of my own," said she. "It only wants a tiny
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