armed as it were amid rising
waters.

"The theatre," said she, gravely. "You're the one man that can save
London. No one _in_ London can do it!... _You_ have the happiness of
knowing what your mission is, and of knowing, too, that you are equal
to it. What good fortune! I wish I could say as much for myself.
I want to do something! I try! But what can I do? Nothing--really!
You've no idea of the awful loneliness that comes from a feeling of
inability."

"Loneliness," he repeated. "But surely--" he stopped.

"Loneliness," she insisted. Her little chin was now in her little
hand, and her dim face upturned.

And suddenly a sensation of absolute and marvellous terror seized
Edward Henry. He was more afraid than he had ever been--and yet
once or twice in his life he had felt fear. His sense of true
perspective--one of his most precious qualities--returned. He thought:
"I've got to get out of this." Well, the door was not locked. It was
only necessary to turn the handle, and security lay on the other side
of the door! He had but to rise and walk. And he could not. He might
just as well have been manacled in a prison-cell. He was under an
enchantment.

"A man," murmured Elsie, "a man can never realize the loneliness--"
She ceased.

He stirred uneasily.

"About this play," he found himself saying. And yet why should he
mention the play in his fright? He pretended to himself not to know
why. But he knew why. His instinct had seen in the topic of the play
the sole avenue of salvation.

"A wonderful thing, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," he said. And then--most astonishingly to himself--added:
"I've decided to do it."

"We knew you would," she said calmly. "At any rate I did.... You'll
open with it, of course."

"Yes," he answered desperately. And proceeded, with the most
extraordinary bravery, "If you'll act in it."

Immediately on hearing these last words issue from his mouth he knew
that a fool had uttered them, and that the bravery was mere rashness.
For Elsie's responding gesture reinspired him afresh with the
exquisite terror which he had already begun to conjure away.

"You think Miss Euclid ought to have the part," he added quickly,
before she could speak.

"Oh! I do!" cried Elsie, positively and eagerly. "Rose will do simply
wonders with that part. You see she can speak verse. I can't. I'm
nobody. I only took it because--"

"Aren't you anybody?" he contradicted. "Aren't you anybody? I can just
tell you--"