ry took advantage of the altercation to ascertain from
Verschoyle that he was willing to back Mann's _Tempest_ for at least an
eight weeks' run. That was good enough for Sir Henry. He had no need
to look at the drawings.... He was back again in his palmy days. He
knew that Clara, like Teresa, would not let him make a fool of himself.

Clara saw this, and was very angry and sore. It was terrible to her
that when she had hoped for an eagerness and gusto to carry through her
project there should have been this declension upon money and food.
After all, Shakespeare wrote _The Tempest_ and his share in its
production was greater than that of either Mann or Butcher. She had
hoped they would discuss the play and bring into common stock their
ideas upon it.

However, she laughed at herself for being so young and innocent. No
doubt in their own time they would really tackle their problem, and,
after all, in the world of men, from which women were and perhaps
always would be excluded, money and food were of prime importance. All
the same she was disappointed and could hardly conceal it.

'I haven't had such a good evening for twenty years,' said Sir Henry.

'Famous,' said Charles, returning to the table. Charles was astonished
to find how much he liked Sir Henry, upon whose doings in his exile he
had brooded bitterly.

Verschoyle said,--

'I'm only astonished that more men in my position don't go in for the
theatre. There are so many of us and we can't think of anything better
than racing and polo and big game.'

As they were all so pleased with themselves, Clara swallowed her
chagrin, and more happily accepted their homage when Sir Henry toasted
her as the presiding Muse of the Imperium.

She was suffering from the reaction from a fulfilled ambition. She had
overcome Charles's reluctance to submit to the machinery of the
theatre, and was herself now inspired with something of a horror of its
immense power, which could absorb originality and force, and reduce
individuals to helpless puppets. But she would not admit to herself
that she might have been wrong, and that it were possibly better to
have left Charles to fight his own way through.

No, no. Left to himself he would always be tripped up by his desire
for birds and fishes and other such superfluities. Left to meet in
their love of art he and Sir Henry would soon have been at loggerheads.
In their love of food, they could discover each other's charm a