He had called her morbid, but she was immovable. Mrs.
Alsager's messenger let him know that he was expected to supper in
Grosvenor Place, and half an hour afterwards he was seated there
among complimentary people and flowers and popping corks, eating the
first orderly meal he had partaken of for a week. Mrs. Alsager had
carried him off in her brougham--the other people who were coming got
into things of their own. He stopped her short as soon as she began
to tell him how tremendously every one had been struck by the piece;
he nailed her down to the question of Violet Grey. Had she spoilt
the play, had she jeopardised or compromised it--had she been utterly
bad, had she been good in any degree?
"Certainly the performance would have seemed better if SHE had been
better," Mrs. Alsager confessed.
"And the play would have seemed better if the performance had been
better," Wayworth said, gloomily, from the corner of the brougham.
"She does what she can, and she has talent, and she looked lovely.
But she doesn't SEE Nona Vincent.
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