ot home, and waited until the onslaught was over.
Then he rubbed himself down and wriggled inside his clothes.

Clara stood aghast. It was horrible to her that this should have
happened. Blows were as useless as argument with Charles.... He had
done what he had done out of kindliness and childish obedience and,
looking to motives rather than to results, could see no wrong in it.

Verschoyle was at once ashamed of himself.

'I lost my temper,' he said, and Charles, assured that the storm was
over, smiled happily, ran his hands through his hair and said,--

'Do you think Sir Henry would give her a part?'

Verschoyle flung back his head and shouted with laughter. Such
innocence was a supreme joke, especially coming after the serious
conversation in which he and Clara had aired their fears as to the
result of their incursion into theatrical politics.

'She used to be quite pretty,' added Charles. 'What delightful rooms
you have, my dear. They're not so warm as my ham and beef shop.'

'Listen to me, Charles,' said Verschoyle. 'This is serious. I don't
care about you. Nothing could hurt you. I don't believe you know half
the time what is going on under your nose, but it is vitally serious
for Clara. This business must be stopped.... If we can't buy these
people off then I'll give you two hundred to clear out.'

'Clear out?' faltered Charles, 'but--my _Tempest_ is just coming on.
I'm----'

Verschoyle took up the letter and noted the address, one of the musical
comedy theatres.

'Have you heard from Mr Clott lately?'

'No. His name is Cumberland now, you know. He came into money. He
said he would come back to me when I had my own theatre.'

'Theatre be damned. I wanted to know if he's still blackmailing you.'

'Blackmail? Oh, no.'

'Don't you mind people blackmailing you?'

'If people are made like that.'

'Ah!' Verschoyle gave an indescribable gurgle of impatience. 'Look
here, Mann, do try to realise the position. You can't get rid of this
woman whatever she does because you have treated marriage as though you
could take a wife as if it were no more than buying a packet of
cigarettes.'

'I have never thought of Clara as my wife.'

'How then?'

'As Clara,' said Charles simply. 'She is a very great artist.'

Verschoyle was baffled, but Clara forgave Charles all his folly for the
sake of his simplicity. It was true. The mistake was hers. What he
said was unalterably true. She was