"I have thought of that," Matravers said. "Will you lunch with me at my rooms on Sunday and meet her? that is, of course, if she is able to come."

"I shall be delighted," Fergusson answered. "About two, I suppose?"

Matravers a.s.sented, and the two men parted. The actor, with a little shrug of his shoulders and the air of a man who has an unpleasant task before him, turned southwards to interview the lady who certainly had the first claim to play "Bathilde." He found her at home and anxiously expecting him.

"If you had not come to-day," she remarked, "I should have sent for you. I want you to contradict that rubbish."

She threw the theatrical paper across at him, and watched him, whilst he read the paragraph to which she had pointed. He laid the paper down.

"I cannot altogether contradict it," he said. "There is some truth in what the man writes."

The lady was getting angry. She came over to Fergusson and stood by his side.

"You mean to tell me," she exclaimed, "that you have accepted a play for immediate production which I have not even seen, and in which the princ.i.p.al part is to be given to one of those crackpots down at the New Theatre, an amateur, an outsider--a woman no one ever heard of before."

"You can't exactly say that," he interposed calmly. "I see you have her novel on your table there, and she is a woman who has been talked about a good deal lately. But the facts of the case are these.

Matravers brought me a play a few days ago which almost took my breath away. It is by far the best thing of the sort I ever read. It is bound to be a great success. I can't tell you any more now,--you shall read it yourself in a day or two. He was very easy to deal with as to terms, but he made one condition: that a certain part in it,--the princ.i.p.al one, I admit,--should be offered to this woman. I tried all I could to talk him out of it, but absolutely without effect. I was forced to consent. There is not a manager in London who would not jump at the play on any conditions. You know our position.

'Her Majesty' is a failure, and I haven't a single decent thing to put on. I simply dared not let such a chance as this go by."

"I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life," the lady exclaimed.

"No, I'm not blaming you, Reggie! I don't suppose you could have done anything else. But this woman, what a nerve she must have to imagine that she can do it! I see her horrid Norwegian play has come to utter grief at the New Theatre."

"She is a clever woman," Fergusson remarked. "One can only hope for the best."

She flashed a quiet glance at him.

"You know her, then,--you have been to see her."

"Not yet," Fergusson answered. "I am going to meet her to-morrow.

Matravers has asked me to lunch."

"Tell me about Matravers," she said.

"I am afraid I do not know much. He is a very distinguished literary man, but his work has generally been critical or philosophical,--every one will be surprised to hear that he has written a play. You will find that there will be quite a stir about it. The reason why we have no plays nowadays which can possibly be cla.s.sed as literature, is because the wrong cla.s.s of man is writing for the stage. Smith and Francis and all these men have fine dramatic instincts, but they are not scholars. Their dialogue is mostly beneath contempt; there is a dash of conventionality in their best work. Now, Matravers is a writer of an altogether different type."

"Thanks," she interrupted, "but I don't want a homily. I am only curious about the man himself."

Fergusson pulled himself up a little annoyed. He had begun to talk about a subject of peculiar interest to him.

"Oh, the man himself is rather an interesting personality," he declared. "He is a recluse, a dilettante, and a very brilliant man of letters."

"I want to know," the lady said impatiently, "whether he is married."

"Married! certainly not," Fergusson a.s.sured her.

"Very well, then, I am going there to luncheon with you to-morrow."

Fergusson looked blank.

"But, my dear girl," he protested, "how on earth----"

"Don't be foolish, Reggie," she said calmly. "It is perfectly natural for me to go! I have been your princ.i.p.al actress for several seasons.

I suppose if there is a second woman's part in the piece, it will be mine, if I choose to take it. You must write and ask Matravers for permission to bring me. You can mention my desire to meet the new actress if you like."

Fergusson took up his hat.

"Matravers is not the sort of man one feels like taking a liberty with," he said. "But I'll try him."

"You can let me know to-night at the theatre," she directed.

CHAPTER IX

Nothing short of a miracle could have made Matravers' luncheon party a complete success; yet, so far as Berenice was concerned, it could scarcely be looked upon in any other light. Her demeanour towards Adelaide Robinson and Fergusson was such as to give absolutely no opportunity for anything disagreeable! She frankly admitted both her inexperience and her ignorance. Yet, before they left, both Fergusson and his companion began to understand Matravers' confidence in her.

There was something almost magnetically attractive about her personality.

The luncheon was very much what one who knew him would have expected from Matravers--simple, yet served with exceeding elegance. The fruit, the flowers, and the wine had been his own care; and the table had very much the appearance of having been bodily transported from the palace of a n.o.ble of some southern land. After the meal was over, they sat out upon the shaded balcony and sipped their coffee and liqueurs,--Fergusson and Berenice wrapt in the discussion of many details of the work which lay before them, whilst Matravers, with an effort which he carefully concealed, talked continually with Adelaide Robinson.

"Is it true," she asked him, "that you did not intend your play for the stage--that you wrote it from a literary point of view only?"

"In a sense, that is quite true," he admitted. "I wrote it without any definite idea of offering it to any London manager. My doing so was really only an impulse."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Matravers was suddenly conscious of an odd sense of disturbance]

"If Mr. Fergusson is right--and he is a pretty good judge--you won't regret having done so," she remarked. "He thinks it is going to have a big run."

"He may be right," Matravers answered. "For all our sakes, I hope so!"

"It will be a magnificent opportunity for your friend."

Matravers looked over towards Berenice. She was talking eagerly to Fergusson, whose dark, handsome head was very close to hers, and in whose eyes was already evident his growing admiration. Matravers was suddenly conscious of an odd sense of disturbance. He was grateful to Adelaide Robinson for her intervention. She had risen to her feet, and glanced downwards at the little brougham drawn up below.

"I am so sorry to go," she said; "but I positively must make some calls this afternoon."

Fergusson rose also, with obvious regret, and they left together.

"Don't forget," he called back from the door; "we read our parts to-morrow, and rehearsals begin on Thursday."

"I have it all down," Berenice answered. "I will do my best to be ready for Thursday."

Berenice remained standing, looking thoughtfully after the little brougham, which was being driven down Piccadilly.

Matravers came back to her, and laid his hand gently upon her arm.

"You must not think of going yet," he said. "I want you to stay and have tea with me."