y she possessed. Everything outside the play had
disappeared for her, too. That so much of Charles's work should be
submerged hurt her terribly and she blamed herself, but for that was
only the more determined to retrieve the situation with her own art, to
which, as Sir Henry revered it, he clung. She knew that and was
determined not to fail. However much Charles's work was mutilated, her
success--if she won it--would redeem his plight.

Therefore she surrendered herself absolutely to the whirling chaos of
the rehearsals, from which it seemed impossible that order could ever
come. She ordered her own thoughts by doing the obvious thing, reading
the play until she was soaked with it. No one else apparently had done
that and, as she grew more familiar with it and more intimate with its
spirit, she began to doubt horribly whether Charles had done so either.
His scenery seemed as remote from that spirit as Sir Henry's theatrical
devices, and almost equally an imposition. As she realised this she
was forced to see how completely she was now detached from Charles, and
also, to her suffering, how she had laid herself open to the charge of
having used him, though he, in his generous simplicity, would never see
it in that light or bring any accusation against her.... She blamed
herself far more for what she had done to Rodd. That, she knew, was
serious, and the more intimate she became with Shakespeare's genius the
more she understood the havoc she must have wrought in Rodd's life.

How strange was this world of Prime Ministers and actor-managers which
dominated London and in which London acquiesced; very charming, very
delightful, if only one could believe in it, or could accept that it
was the best possible that London could throw up. But if it was so,
what need was there of so much advertising, paragraphing, interviewing?
Which was the pretence, the theatre or the world outside it? Which
were the actresses, she and Julia Wainwright and the rest, or Lady
Butcher and Lady Bracebridge? And in fine, was it all, like everything
else, only a question of money? Verschoyle's money? And if Verschoyle
paid, why was he shoved aside so ignominiously?

Clara shivered as she thought of the immense complication of what
should be so simple and true and beautiful.... But what alternative
was there? This elaboration and corruption of the theatre or the
imagination working freely in an empty room.

She could see no other. Ro