"What will you do for her if
it does?"
He looked at Violet Grey's aunt a moment. "Do you say your niece is
very proud?"
"Too proud for her dreadful profession."
"Then she wouldn't wish you to ask me that," Wayworth answered,
getting up.
When he reached home he was very tired, and for a person to whom it
was open to consider that he had scored a success he spent a
remarkably dismal day. All his restlessness had gone, and fatigue
and depression possessed him. He sank into his old chair by the fire
and sat there for hours with his eyes closed. His landlady came in
to bring his luncheon and mend the fire, but he feigned to be asleep,
so as not to be spoken to. It is to be supposed that sleep at last
overtook him, for about the hour that dusk began to gather he had an
extraordinary impression, a visit that, it would seem, could have
belonged to no waking consciousness. Nona Vincent, in face and form,
the living heroine of his play, rose before him in his little silent
room, sat down with him at his dingy fireside.
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