ish stage go on gloomily saying that there's
something rotten in the state of Norway?.... I have run Shakespeare
for more hundred nights than any man in the history of the British
drama, and I venture to say that every man of eminence and every woman
of beauty or charm has had at least a cigarette in this room.... Isn't
that proof of the importance of the theatre?'

'It may be only proof of your personal charm, Sir Henry,' said
Verschoyle, and Clara was pleased with him for that.... She enjoyed
this meeting of her two friends. Verschoyle's breeding was the exactly
appropriate set off to Sir Henry's flamboyance.

With the arrival of Charles, the grouping was perfect. He came in
bubbling over with enthusiasm. His portfolio was under his arm, and he
had in his hand a bundle of newspapers.

'Extraordinary news,' he said. 'The Germans in despair are turning the
theatre into a circus. Their idea of a modern Hellenic revival.
Crowds, horses, clowns.... Sophocles in a circus!'

'Horrible!' said Verschoyle. 'Horrible! We must do better than that,
Sir Henry.'

'I _have_ done better.'

Charles bent over Clara's hand and kissed it.

'I have been working hard,' he said. 'Very hard. My designs are
nearly finished.... Verschoyle likes them.'

'I think them delightful,' said Verschoyle.

Supper was served. In tribute to Clara's charm, Verschoyle's wealth,
and Charles's genius, it was exquisitely chosen--oysters, cold salmon,
various meats, pastries and jellies, with sherry, champagne, port and
liqueurs, ices and coffee.

Sir Henry and Charles ate enormously. Even in that they were in
competition. They sat opposite each other, and their hands were
constantly busy reaching over the table for condiments, bread,
biscuits, olives, wine.... Verschoyle and Clara were in strong
contrast to them, though both were enjoying themselves and were vastly
entertained by the gusto of the great.

Sir Henry talked at Clara in a boyish attempt to dispossess Charles.
He was at his most airily brilliant, and invented a preposterous story
in which Mr Gillies, his manager, and Mr Weinberg, his musical
director, were engaged in an intrigue to ruin Miss Julia Wainwright, as
the one had a niece, the other a wife, aching to become leading lady at
the Imperium.

'Julia,' he said, 'shall play Caliban. Why not? You shall play Ariel,
Mann, and dear old Freeland shall be Ceres.... Let us be original. I
haven't read _The Tempest_ f