However it was only Bruno, and the Chancellor gave a little gasp of relieved anxiety.
But the bow was lost upon Bruno, who had run out of the room, even while the great feat of The Unpronounceable Monosyllable was being triumphantly performed.
The rest of their conversation was all in whispers: so, as I could hear no more, I thought I would go and find Bruno.
"His High Excellency," this respectful man was saying, "is in his Study, y'reince!" (He didn't pronounce this quite so well as the Chancellor.) Thither Bruno trotted, and I thought it well to follow him.
She looked four or five years older than Bruno, but she had the same rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, and the same wealth of curly brown hair.
"No, you've never seen him," the old man was saying: "you couldn't, you know, he's been away so long--traveling from land to land, and seeking for health, more years than you've been alive, little Sylvie!" Here Bruno climbed upon his other knee, and a good deal of kissing, on a rather complicated system, was the result.
In company with her male colleague, the great American actor, Isidore Bruno, she was producing a particularly poetical and fantastic interpretation of Midsummer Night's Dream: in which the artistic prominence was given to Oberon and Titania, or in other words to Bruno and herself.
Nearly six-foot-six, and of more than theatrical thews and muscles, Isidore Bruno, in the gorgeous leopard skin and golden-brown garments of Oberon, looked like a barbaric god.
(especially in such a presence as Bruno's and Aurora's) rather like the wooden Noah out of an ark.
Bruno, the big actor, was so babyish that it was easy to send him off in brute sulks, banging the door.
The first object of her diplomacy, the exit of the enraged Bruno, was at once achieved.
A man in his position has so many rivals, and he remembered that at the other end of the passage was the corresponding entrance to Bruno's private room.