The day, till seven o'clock, was
understood to be consecrated to rest, but every one except Violet
Grey turned up at the theatre. Wayworth looked at Mr. Loder, and Mr.
Loder looked in another direction, which was as near as they came to
conversation. Wayworth was in a fidget, unable to eat or sleep or
sit still, at times almost in terror. He kept quiet by keeping, as
usual, in motion; he tried to walk away from his nervousness. He
walked in the afternoon toward Notting Hill, but he succeeded in not
breaking the vow he had taken not to meddle with his actress. She
was like an acrobat poised on a slippery ball--if he should touch her
she would topple over. He passed her door three times and he thought
of her three hundred. This was the hour at which he most regretted
that Mrs. Alsager had not come back--for he had called at her house
only to learn that she was still at Torquay. This was probably
queer, and it was probably queerer still that she hadn't written to
him; but even of these things he wasn't sure, for in losing, as he
had now completely lost, his judgment of his play, he seemed to
himself to have lost his judgment of everything.
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