something about your play."
"I don't suppose you'll any of you like it," he said, with a sulkiness born of his nervousness.
"Some of us may not," she replied coolly. "Have you had anything put on yet?"
"No. At least, I had a Sunday-night show once. Not this play. Linda Bury was interested in it, but it didn't come to anything. Of course, it was very immature in parts. I see that now. The trouble is that I haven't any backing." He pushed an unruly lock of hair off his brow, and added defiantly: "I work in a bank!"
"Not a bad way of marking time," she said, refusing to see in this belligerent confession anything either extraordinary or pathetic.
"If I could only get a start, I'd - I'd never set foot inside the place again!"
"You probably wouldn't have to. Has your play got popular appeal?"
"It's a serious play. I don't care about popular appeal, as you call it. I - I know I've got it in me to write plays - good plays! - but I'd sooner stick to banking all my life than - than -"
"Prostitute your art," supplied Mathilda, unable to curb an irrepressible tongue.
He flushed, but said: "Yes, that's what I do mean, though I've no doubt you're laughing at me. Do you think - do you suppose there's the least hope of Mr. Herriard's being interested?"
She did not, but although she was in general an honest woman, she could not bring herself to say so. He was looking at her with such a dreadfully anxious expression on his thin face that she began, almost insensibly, to turn over vague plans in her mind for cajoling Nathaniel.
"It wouldn't cost much," he said wistfully. "Even if he doesn't care about art, he might like to give Paula a chance. She's quite marvellous in the part, you know. He'll see that. She's going to do the big scene, just to show him."
"What is her part?" Mathilda enquired, feeling herself incapable of explaining that Nathaniel profoundly disliked his niece's association with the stage.
"She's a prostitute," said the author simply.
Mathilda spilt her tea. Wild ideas of imploring Roydon not to be fool enough to read his play gave way, as she dried the skirt of her frock, to a fatalistic feeling that nothing she could say would be likely to prevent this young man from rushing on to his doom.
Stephen, who had strolled across the room to the cakestand, saw her spill her tea, and tossed her his handkerchief. "Clumsy wench! Here, have this!"
"Tea stains things absolutely fatally," said Valerie.
"Not if you rub hard enough," returned Mathilda, using Stephen's handkerchief vigorously.
"I was thinking of Stephen's hanky."
"I wasn't. Thanks, Stephen. Do you want it back?"
"Not particularly. Come over to the fire, and steam off!"
She obeyed, rejecting various pieces of helpful advice proffered by Maud and Paula. Stephen held out a plate of small cakes. "Take one. Always fortify yourself against coming ordeals."
She looked round, satisfying herself that Roydon, at the other end of the long room, was out of earshot, and said in an anguished undertone: "Stephen, it's about a prostitute!"
"What is?" he asked, interested. "Not this misbegotten play?"
She nodded, shaken with inward laughter. Stephen looked pleased for the first time that day. "You don't mean it! Won't Uncle enjoy himself! I meant to go away, to write mythical letters. I shan't now. I wouldn't miss this for a fortune."
"For God's sake, behave decently!" she begged. "It's going to be ghastly!"
"Nonsense, my girl! A good time is going to be had by all."
"Stephen, if you're unpleasant to the poor silly young ass, I shall have a shot at murdering you!"
He opened his eyes at her. "Sits the wind in that quarter? I wouldn't have thought it of you."
"No, you fool. But he's too vulnerable. It would be cruelty to children. Besides, he's in deadly earnest."
"Over-engined for his beam," said Stephen. "I might get a rise."
"More than you'd bargained for, I daresay. I always play safe with that unbalanced, neurotic type."
"I never play safe with
"I don't suppose you'll any of you like it," he said, with a sulkiness born of his nervousness.
"Some of us may not," she replied coolly. "Have you had anything put on yet?"
"No. At least, I had a Sunday-night show once. Not this play. Linda Bury was interested in it, but it didn't come to anything. Of course, it was very immature in parts. I see that now. The trouble is that I haven't any backing." He pushed an unruly lock of hair off his brow, and added defiantly: "I work in a bank!"
"Not a bad way of marking time," she said, refusing to see in this belligerent confession anything either extraordinary or pathetic.
"If I could only get a start, I'd - I'd never set foot inside the place again!"
"You probably wouldn't have to. Has your play got popular appeal?"
"It's a serious play. I don't care about popular appeal, as you call it. I - I know I've got it in me to write plays - good plays! - but I'd sooner stick to banking all my life than - than -"
"Prostitute your art," supplied Mathilda, unable to curb an irrepressible tongue.
He flushed, but said: "Yes, that's what I do mean, though I've no doubt you're laughing at me. Do you think - do you suppose there's the least hope of Mr. Herriard's being interested?"
She did not, but although she was in general an honest woman, she could not bring herself to say so. He was looking at her with such a dreadfully anxious expression on his thin face that she began, almost insensibly, to turn over vague plans in her mind for cajoling Nathaniel.
"It wouldn't cost much," he said wistfully. "Even if he doesn't care about art, he might like to give Paula a chance. She's quite marvellous in the part, you know. He'll see that. She's going to do the big scene, just to show him."
"What is her part?" Mathilda enquired, feeling herself incapable of explaining that Nathaniel profoundly disliked his niece's association with the stage.
"She's a prostitute," said the author simply.
Mathilda spilt her tea. Wild ideas of imploring Roydon not to be fool enough to read his play gave way, as she dried the skirt of her frock, to a fatalistic feeling that nothing she could say would be likely to prevent this young man from rushing on to his doom.
Stephen, who had strolled across the room to the cakestand, saw her spill her tea, and tossed her his handkerchief. "Clumsy wench! Here, have this!"
"Tea stains things absolutely fatally," said Valerie.
"Not if you rub hard enough," returned Mathilda, using Stephen's handkerchief vigorously.
"I was thinking of Stephen's hanky."
"I wasn't. Thanks, Stephen. Do you want it back?"
"Not particularly. Come over to the fire, and steam off!"
She obeyed, rejecting various pieces of helpful advice proffered by Maud and Paula. Stephen held out a plate of small cakes. "Take one. Always fortify yourself against coming ordeals."
She looked round, satisfying herself that Roydon, at the other end of the long room, was out of earshot, and said in an anguished undertone: "Stephen, it's about a prostitute!"
"What is?" he asked, interested. "Not this misbegotten play?"
She nodded, shaken with inward laughter. Stephen looked pleased for the first time that day. "You don't mean it! Won't Uncle enjoy himself! I meant to go away, to write mythical letters. I shan't now. I wouldn't miss this for a fortune."
"For God's sake, behave decently!" she begged. "It's going to be ghastly!"
"Nonsense, my girl! A good time is going to be had by all."
"Stephen, if you're unpleasant to the poor silly young ass, I shall have a shot at murdering you!"
He opened his eyes at her. "Sits the wind in that quarter? I wouldn't have thought it of you."
"No, you fool. But he's too vulnerable. It would be cruelty to children. Besides, he's in deadly earnest."
"Over-engined for his beam," said Stephen. "I might get a rise."
"More than you'd bargained for, I daresay. I always play safe with that unbalanced, neurotic type."
"I never play safe with
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