THE Ulfords accepted for the first. Lady Holme left cards on Mrs. Leo and told her husband that the box was filled up. He received the information with indifference. So long as his wife was there to please Miss Schley, and Mr. Laycock to “give her a hand and show ‘em all whether she was popular,” he was satisfied. Having gained his point, he was once again in excellent humour. Possibly Lady Holme would have appreciated his large gaieties more if she had not divined their cause. But she expressed no dissatisfaction with them, and indeed increased them by her own brilliant serenity during the days that intervened between the Martha Brayley incident and the first night.

Lord Holme had no suspicion that during these days she was inwardly debating whether she would go to the theatre or not.

It would be very easy to be unwell. She was going out incessantly and could be over-fatigued. She could have woman’s great stand-by in moments of crisis—a bad attack of neuralgia. It was the simplest matter in the world. The only question was—all things considered, was it worth while? By “all things considered” she meant Leo Ulford. The touch of Fritz in him made him a valuable ally at this moment. Fritz and Miss Schley were not going to have things quite all their own way. And then Mrs. Leo! She would put Fritz next the ear-trumpet. She had enough sense of humour to smile to herself at the thought of him there. On the whole, she fancied the neuralgia would not attack her at the critical instant.

Only when she thought of what her husband had said about the American’s desire for her presence did she hesitate again. Her suspicions were aroused. Miss Schley was not anxious that she should be conspicuously in the theatre merely because she was the smartest woman in London. That was certain. Besides, she was not the smartest woman in London. She was far too well-born to be that in these great days of the demi-mondaine. She remembered Robin Pierce’s warning at the Arkell House ball—“Consider yourselves enemies for no reasons or secret woman’s reasons. It’s safer.”

When do women want the bulky, solid reasons obtusely demanded by men before they can be enemies? Where man insists on an insult, a blow, they will be satisfied with a look—perhaps not even at them but only at the skirt of their gown—with a turn of the head, with nothing at all. For what a man calls nothing can be the world and all that there is in it to a woman. Lady Holme knew that she and the American had been enemies since the moment when the latter had moved with the tiny steps that so oddly caricatured her own individual walk down the stairs at the Carlton. She wanted no tiresome reasons; nor did Miss Schley. Robin was right, of course. He understood women. But then—?

Should she go to the theatre?

The night came and she went. Whether an extraordinary white lace gown, which arrived from Paris in the morning, and fitted too perfectly for words, had anything to do with the eventual decision was not known to anybody but herself.

Boxes are no longer popular in London except at the Opera. The British Theatre was new, and the management, recognising that people prefer stalls, had given up all the available space to them, and only left room for two large boxes, which faced each other on a level with the dress circle and next the stage. Lord Holme had one. Mrs. Wolfstein had taken the other.

Miss Schley’s personal success in London brought together a rather special audience. There were some of the usual people who go to first nights—critics, ladies who describe dresses, fashionable lawyers and doctors. But there were also numbers of people who are scarcely ever seen on these occasions, people who may be found in the ground and grand tier boxes at Covent Garden during the summer season. These thronged the stalls, and every one of them was a dear friend of Lady Holme’s. Among them were Lady Cardington, Lady Manby, Sally Perceval with her magnificently handsome and semi-idiotic husband, old Lady Blower, in a green cap that suggested the bathing season, Robin Pierce and Mr. Bry. Smart Americans were scattered all over the house. Most of them had already seen the play in New York during the preceding winter, and nearly everyone in the stalls had seen the French original in Paris. The French piece had been quite shocking and quite delicious. Every Royalty de passage in Paris had been to see it, and one wandering monarch had gone three nights running, and had laughed until his gentleman-in-waiting thought the heir to his throne was likely to succeed much sooner than was generally expected.

The Holmes came in early. Lady Holme hated arriving anywhere early, but Lord Holme was in such a prodigious fuss about being in plenty of time to give Miss Schley a “rousin’ welcome,” that she yielded to his bass protestations, and had the satisfaction of entering their box at least seven minutes before the curtain went up. The stalls, of course, were empty, and as they gradually filled she saw the faces of her friends looking up at her with an amazement that under other circumstances might have been amusing, but under these was rather irritating. Mr. Laycock arrived two minutes after they did, and was immediately engaged in a roaring conversation by Fritz. He was a man who talked a great deal without having anything to say, who had always had much success with women, perhaps because he had always treated them very badly, who dressed, danced and shot well, and who had never, even for a moment, really cared for anyone but himself. A common enough type.

Sir Donald appeared next, looking even more ghostly than usual. He sat down by Lady Holme, a little behind her. He seemed depressed, but the expression in his pale blue eyes when they first rested upon her made her thoroughly realise one thing—that it was one of her conquering nights. His eyes travelled quickly from her face to her throat, to her gown. She wore no jewels. Sir Donald had a fastidious taste in beauty—the taste that instinctively rejects excess of any kind. Her appeal to it had never been so great as to-night. She knew it, and felt that she had never found Sir Donald so attractive as to-night.

Mr. and Mrs. Ulford came in just as the curtain was going up, and the introductions had to be gone through with a certain mysterious caution, and the sitting arrangements made with as little noise as possible. Lady Holme managed them deftly. Mr. Laycock sat nearest the stage, then Leo Ulford next to her, on her right. Sir Donald was on her other side, Mrs. Leo sat in the place of honour, with Lord Holme between her and Sir Donald. She was intensely pink. Even her gown was of that colour, and she wore a pink aigrette in her hair, fastened with a diamond ornament. Her thin, betraying throat was clasped by the large dog-collar she had worn at Arkell House. She cast swift, bird-like glances, full of a sort of haggard inquiry, towards Lady Holme as she settled down in her arm-chair in the corner. Lord Holme looked at her and at her ear-trumpet, and Lady Holme was glad she had decided not to have neuralgia. There are little compensations about all women even in the tiresome moments of their lives. Whether this moment was going to be tiresome or not she could not yet decide.

The Wolfstein party had come in at the same time as the Leo Ulfords, and the box opposite presented an interesting study of Jewish types. For Mrs. Wolfstein and “Henry” were accompanied by four immensely rich compatriots, three of whom were members of the syndicate that was “backing” Miss Schley. The fourth was the wife of one of them, and a cousin of Henry’s, whom she resembled, but on a greatly enlarged scale. Both she and Amalia blazed with jewels, and both were slightly overdressed and looked too animated. Lady Holme saw Sir Donald glance at them, and then again at her, and began to think more definitely that the evening would not be tiresome.

Leo Ulford seemed at present forced into a certain constraint by the family element in the box. He looked at his father sideways, then at Lady Holme, drummed one hand on his knee, and was evidently uncertain of himself. During the opening scene of the play he found an opportunity to whisper to Lady Holme:

“I never can talk when pater’s there!”

She whispered back:

“We mustn’t talk now.”

Then she looked towards the stage with apparent interest. Mrs. Leo sat sideways with her trumpet lifted up towards her ear, Lord Holme had his eyes fixed on the stage, and held his hands ready for the “rousin’ welcome.” Mr. Laycock, at the end of the row, was also all attention. Lady Holme glanced from one to the other, and murmured to Sir Donald with a smile:

“I think we shall find to-night that the claque is not abolished in England.”

He raised his eyebrows and looked distressed.

“I have very little hope of her acting,” he murmured back.

Lady Holme put her fan to her lips.

“‘Sh! No sacrilege!” she said in an under voice.

She saw Leo Ulford shoot an angry glance at his father. Mrs. Wolfstein nodded and smiled at her from the opposite box, and it struck Lady Holme that her smile was more definitely malicious than usual, and that her large black eyes were full of a sort of venomous anticipation. Mrs. Wolfstein had at all times an almost frightfully expressive face. To-night it had surely discarded every shred of reticence, and proclaimed an eager expectation of something which Lady Holme could not divine, but which must surely be very disagreeable to her. What could it possibly be? And was it in any way connected with Miss Schley’s anxiety that she should be there that night? She began to wish that the American would appear, but Miss Schley had nothing to do in the first act till near the end, and then had only one short scene to bring down the curtain. Lady Holme knew this because she had seen the play in Paris. She thought the American version very dull. The impropriety had been removed and with it all the fun. People began to yawn and to assume the peculiar blank expression—the bankrupt face—that is indicative of thwarted anticipation. Only the Americans who had seen the piece in New York preserved their lively looks and an appearance of being on the qui vive.

Lord Holme’s blunt brown features gradually drooped, seemed to become definitely elongated. As time went on he really began to look almost lantern-jawed. He bent forward and tried to catch Mr. Laycock’s eye and to telegraph an urgent question, but only succeeded in meeting the surly blue eyes of Leo Ulford, whom he met to-night for the first time. In his despair he turned towards Mrs. Leo, and at once encountered the ear-trumpet. He glanced at it with apprehension, and, after a moment of vital hesitation, was about to pour into it the provender, “Have you any notion when she’s comin’ on?” when there was a sudden rather languid slapping of applause, and he jerked round hastily to find Miss Schley already on the stage and welcomed without any of the assistance which he was specially there to give. He lifted belated hands, but met a glance from his wife which made him drop them silently. There was a satire in her eyes, a sort of humorous, half-urging patronage that pierced the hide of his self-satisfied and lethargic mind. She seemed sitting there ready to beat time to his applause, nod her head to it as to a childish strain of jigging music. And this apparent preparation for a semi-comic, semi-pitiful benediction sent his hands suddenly to his knees.

He stared at the stage. Miss Schley was looking wonderfully like Viola, he thought, on the instant, more like than she did in real life; like Viola gone to the bad, though become a very reticent, yet very definite, cocotte. There was not much in the scene, but Miss Schley, without apparent effort and with a profound demureness, turned the dulness of it into something that was—not French, certainly not that—but that was quite as outrageous as the French had been, though in a different way; something without definite nationality, but instinct with the slyness of acute and unscrupulous womankind. The extraordinary thing was the marvellous resemblance this acute and unscrupulous womanhood bore to Lady Holme’s, even through all its obvious difference from hers. All her little mannerisms of voice, look, manner and movement, were there but turned towards commonness, even towards a naive but very self-conscious impropriety. Had she been a public performer instead of merely a woman of the world, the whole audience must have at once recognised the imitation. As it was, her many friends in the house noticed it, and during the short progress of the scene various heads were turned in her direction, various faces glanced up at the big box in which she sat, leaning one arm on the ledge, and looking towards Miss Schley with an expression of quiet observation—a little indifferent—on her white face. Even Sir Donald, who was next to her, and who once—in the most definite moment of Miss Schley’s ingenious travesty—looked at her for an instant, could not discern that she was aware of what was amusing or enraging all her acquaintances.

Naturally she had grasped the situation at once, had discovered at once why Miss Schley was anxious for her to be there. As she sat in the box looking on at this gross impertinence, she seemed to herself to be watching herself after a long degringolade, which had brought her, not to the gutter, but to the smart restaurant, the smart music-hall, the smart night club; the smart everything else that is beyond the borderland of even a lax society. This was Miss Schley’s comment upon her. The sting of it lay in this fact, that it followed immediately upon the heels of the unpleasant scene at Arkell House. Otherwise, she thought it would not have troubled her. Now it did trouble her. She felt not only indignant with Miss Schley. She felt also secretly distressed in a more subtle way. Miss Schley’s performance was calculated, coming at this moment, to make her world doubtful just when it had been turned from doubt. A good caricature fixes the attention upon the oddities, or the absurdities, latent in the original. But this caricature did more. It suggested hidden possibilities which she, by her own indiscreet action at the ball, had made perhaps to seem probabilities to many people.

Here, before her friends, was set a woman strangely like her, but evidently a bad woman. Lady Holme was certain that the result of Miss Schley’s performance would be that were she to do things now which, done before the Arkell House ball and this first night, would not have been noticed, or would have been merely smiled at, they would be commented upon with acrimony, exaggerated, even condemned.

Miss Schley was turning upon her one of those mirrors which distorts by enlarging. Society would be likely to see her permanently distorted, and not only in mannerisms but in character.

It happened that this fact was specially offensive to her on this particular evening, and at this particular moment of her life.

While she sat there and watched the scene run its course, and saw, without seeming to see, the effect it had upon those whom she knew well in the house—saw Mrs. Wolfstein’s eager delight in it, Lady Manby’s broad amusement, Robin Pierce’s carefully-controlled indignation, Mr. Bry’s sardonic and always cold gratification, Lady Cardington’s surprised, half-tragic wonder—she was oscillating between two courses, one a course of reserve, of stern self-control and abnegation, the other a course of defiance, of reckless indulgence of the strong temper that dwelt within her, and that occasionally showed itself for a moment, as it had on the evening of Miss Filberte’s fiasco. That temper was flaming now unseen. Was she going to throw cold water over the flame, or to fan it? She did not know.

When the curtain fell, the critics, who sometimes seem to enjoy personally what they call very sad and disgraceful in print, were smiling at one another. The blank faces of the men about town in the stalls were shining almost unctuously. The smart Americans were busily saying to everyone, “Didn’t we say so?” The whole house was awake. Miss Schley might not be much of an actress. Numbers of people were already bustling about to say that she could not act at all. But she had banished dulness. She had shut the yawning lips, and stopped that uneasy cough which is the expression of the relaxed mind rather than of the relaxed throat.

Lady Holme sat back a little in the box.

“What d’you think of her?” she said to Sir Donald. “I think she’s rather piquant, not anywhere near Granier, of course, but still—”

“I think her performance entirely odious,” he said, with an unusual emphasis that was almost violent. “Entirely odious.”

He got up from his seat, striking his thin fingers against the palms of his hands.

“Vulgar and offensive,” he said, almost as if to himself, and with a sort of passion. “Vulgar and offensive!”

Suddenly he turned away and went out of the box.

“I say—”

Lady Holme, who had been watching Sir Donald’s disordered exit, looked round to Leo.

“I say—” he repeated. “What’s up with pater?”

“He doesn’t seem to be enjoying the play.”

Leo Ulford looked unusually grave, even thoughtful, as if he were pondering over some serious question. He kept his blue eyes fixed upon Lady Holme. At last he said, in a voice much lower than usual:

“Poor chap!”

“Who’s a poor chap?”

Leo jerked his head towards the door.

“Your father? Why?”

“Why—at his age!”

The last words were full of boyish contempt.

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do. To be like that at his age. What’s the good? As if—” He smiled slowly at her. “I’m glad I’m young,” he said.

“I’m glad you’re young too,” she answered. “But you’re quite wrong about Sir Donald.”

She let her eyes rest on his. He shook his head.

“No, I’m not. I guessed it that day at the Carlton. All through lunch he looked at you.”

“But what has all this to do with Miss Schley’s performance?”

“Because she’s something like you, but low down, where you’d never go.”

He drew his chair a little closer to hers.

“Would you?” he added, almost in a whisper.

Mr. Laycock, who was in raptures over Miss Schley’s performance, had got up to speak to Fritz, but found the latter being steadily hypnotised by Mrs. Leo’s trumpet, which went up towards his mouth whenever he opened it. He bellowed distracted nothings but could not make her hear, obtaining no more fortunate result than a persistent flutter of pink eyelids, and a shrill, reiterated “The what? The what?”

A sharp tap came presently on the box door, and Mrs. Wolfstein’s painted face appeared. Lord Holme sprang up with undisguised relief.

“What d’you think of Pimpernel? Ah, Mr. Laycock—I heard your faithful hands.”

“Stunnin’!” roared Lord Holme, “simply stunnin’!”

“Stunnin’! stunnin’!” exclaimed Mr. Laycock; “Rippin’! There’s no other word. Simply rippin’!”

“The what? The what?” cried Mrs. Ulford.

Mrs. Wolfstein bent down, with expansive affection, over Lady Holme’s chair, and clasped the left hand which Lady Holme carelessly raised to a level with her shoulder.

“You dear person! Nice of you to come, and in such a gown too! The angels wear white lace thrown together by Victorine—it is Victorine? I was certain!—I’m sure. D’you like Pimpernel?”

Her too lustrous eyes—even Mrs. Wolfstein’s eyes looked over-dressed—devoured Lady Holme, and her large, curving features were almost riotously interrogative.

“Yes,” Lady Holme said. “Quite.”

“She’s startled everybody.”

“Startled!—why?”

“Oh, well—she has! There’s money in it, don’t you think?”

“Henry,” who had accompanied his wife, and who was standing sideways at the back of the box looking like a thief in the night, came a step forward at the mention of money.

“I’m afraid I’m no judge of that. Your husband would know better.”

“Plenty of money,” said “Henry,” in a low voice that seemed to issue from the bridge of his nose; “it ought to bring a good six thousand into the house for the four weeks. That’s—for Miss Schley—for the Syndicate—ten per cent. on the gross, and twenty-five per cent.—”

He found himself in mental arithmetic.

“The—swan with the golden eggs!” said Lady Holme, lightly, turning once more to Leo Ulford. “You mustn’t kill Miss Schley.”

Mrs. Wolfstein looked at Mr. Laycock and murmured to him:

“Pimpernel does any killing that’s going about—for herself. What d’you say, Franky?”

They went out of the box together, followed by “Henry,” who was still buzzing calculations, like a Jewish bee.

Lord Holme resolutely tore himself from the ear-trumpet, and was preparing to follow, with the bellowed excuse that he was “sufferin’ from toothache” and had been ordered to “do as much smokin’ as possible,” when the curtain rose on the second act.

Miss Schley was engaged to a supper-party that evening and did not wish to be late. Lord Holme sat down again looking scarcely pleasant.

“Do as much—the what?” cried Mrs. Ulford, holding the trumpet at right angles to her pink face.

Leo Ulford leant backwards and hissed “Hush!” at her. She looked at him and then at Lady Holme, and a sudden expression of old age came into her bird-like face and seemed to overspread her whole body. She dropped the trumpet and touched the diamonds that glittered in the front of her low gown with trembling hands.

Mr. Laycock slipped into the box when the curtain had been up two or three minutes, but Sir Donald did not return.

“I b’lieve he’s bolted,” Leo whispered to Lady Holme. “Just like him.”

“Why?”

“Oh!—I’m here, for one thing.”

He looked at her victoriously.

“You’ll have a letter from him to-morrow. Poor old chap!”

He spoke contemptuously.

For the first time Lord Holme seemed consciously and unfavourably observant of his wife and Leo. His under-jaw began to move. But Miss Schley came on to the stage again, and he thrust his head eagerly forward.

During the rest of the evening Miss Schley did not relax her ingenious efforts of mimicry, but she took care not to make them too prominent. She had struck her most resonant note in the first act, and during the two remaining acts she merely kept her impersonation to its original lines. Lady Holme watched the whole performance imperturbably, but before the final curtain fell she knew that she was not going to throw cold water on that flame which was burning within her. Fritz’s behaviour, perhaps, decided which of the two actions should be carried out—the douching or the fanning. Possibly Leo Ulford had something to say in the matter too. Or did the faces of friends below in the stalls play their part in the silent drama which moved step by step with the spoken drama on the stage? Lady Holme did not ask questions of herself. When Mr. Laycock and Fritz were furiously performing the duties of a claque at the end of the play, she got up smiling, and nodded to Mrs. Wolfstein in token of her pleasure in Miss Schley’s success, her opinion that it had been worthily earned. As she nodded she touched one hand with the other, making a silent applause that Mrs. Wolfstein and all her friends might see. Then she let Leo Ulford put on her cloak and called pretty words down Mrs. Leo’s trumpet, all the while nearly deafened by Fritz’s demonstrations, which even outran Mr. Laycock’s.

When at last they died away she said to Leo:

“We are going on to the Elwyns. Shall you be there?”

He stood over her, while Mrs. Ulford watched him, drooping her head sideways.

“Yes.”

“We can talk it all over quietly. Fritz!”

“What’s that about the Elwyns?” said Lord Holme.

“I was telling Mr. Ulford that we are going on there.”

“I’m not. Never heard of it.”

Lady Holme was on the point of retorting that it was he who had told her to accept the invitation on the ground that “the Elwyns always do you better than anyone in London, whether they’re second-raters or not,” but a look in Leo Ulford’s eyes checked her.

“Very well,” she said. “Go to the club if you like; but I must peep in for five minutes. Mrs. Ulford, didn’t you think Miss Schley rather delicious—?”

She went out of the box with one hand on a pink arm, talking gently into the trumpet.

“You goin’ to the Elwyns?” said Lord Holme, gruffly, to Leo Ulford as they got their coats and prepared to follow.

“Depends on my wife. If she’s done up—”

“Ah!” said Lord Holme, striking a match, and holding out his cigarette case, regardless of regulations.

A momentary desire to look in at the Elwyns’ possessed him. Then he thought of a supper-party and forgot it.