observant although it was generally cast down. Society began
to smile secretly at her talented exercises. Only a select few, like
Mrs. Wolfstein, knew exactly what she was doing and why she was doing
it, but the many were entertained, as children are, without analysing
the cause of their amusement.

Two people, however, were indignant--Robin Pierce and Rupert Carey.

Robin Pierce, who had an instinct that was almost feminine in its
subtlety, raged internally, and Rupert Carey, who, naturally acute, was
always specially shrewd when his heart was in the game, openly showed
his distaste for Miss Schley, and went about predicting her complete
failure to capture the London public as an actress.

"She's done it as a woman," someone replied to him.

"Not the public, only the smart fools," returned Carey.

"The smart fools have more influence on the public every day."

Carey only snorted. He was in one of his evil moods that afternoon. He
left the club in which the conversation had taken place, and, casting
about for something to do, some momentary solace for his irritation and
_ennui_, he bethought him of Sir Donald Ulford's invitation and resolved
to make a call at the Albany. Sir Donald would be out, of course, but
anyhow he would chance it and shoot a card.

Sir Donald's servant said he was in. Carey was glad. Here was an hour
filled up.

With his usual hasty, decisive step he followed the man through a dark
and Oriental-looking vestibule into a library, where Sir Donald was
sitting at a bureau of teakwood, slowly writing upon a large, oblong
sheet of foolscap with a very pointed pen.

He got up, looking rather startled, and held out his hand.

"I am glad to see you. I hoped you would come."

"I'm disturbing a new poem," said Carey.

Sir Donald's faded face acknowledged it.

"Sorry. I'll go."

"No, no. I have infinite leisure, and I write now merely for myself. I
shall never publish anything more. The maunderings of the old are really
most thoroughly at home in the waste-paper basket. Do sit down."

Carey threw himself into a deep chair and looked round. It was a room
of books and Oriental china. The floor was covered with an exquisite
Persian carpet, rich and delicate in colour, with one of those vague
and elaborate designs that stir the imagination as it is stirred by a
strange perfume in a dark bazaar where shrouded merchants sit.

"I light it with wax candles," said Sir Donald, handing Carey a cigar.