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"If it does if it does," Mrs. Alsager began, with her pure eyes on him. "Well, what if it does?" She couldn't tell him, for the rest of her guests came in together; she only had time to say: "It SHA'N'T go to the dogs!" He came away before the others, restless with the desire to go to Notting Hill even that night, late as it was, haunted with the sense that Violet Grey had measured her fall.
"My poor friend, you're nervous about Nona Vincent, but you're infinitely more nervous about Violet Grey." "She IS Nona Vincent!" "No, she isn't not a bit!" said Mrs. Alsager, abruptly. "Do you really think so?" Wayworth cried, spilling his tea in his alarm. "What I think doesn't signify I mean what I think about that.
"The young lady of my play, don't you know?" "Oh, sir, you mean Miss Violet Grey!" "No I don't, at all. I think I mean Mrs. Alsager." "There has been no Mrs. Alsager, sir." "Nor anybody at all like her?" The woman looked at him as if she wondered what had suddenly taken him. Then she asked in an injured tone: "Why shouldn't I have told you if you'd 'ad callers, sir?"
Alsager said to him, in giving him his cup of tea and on his having mentioned that he had not closed his eyes the night before: "You must indeed be in a dreadful state. Anxiety for another is still worse than anxiety for one's self." "For another?" Wayworth repeated, looking at her over the rim of his cup.
Alsager pleaded, rising to come nearer and draw the copy, in its cover of greenish-grey paper, which had a generic identity now to him, out of his grasp. "Who in the world will do it? who in the world CAN?" she went on, close to him, turning over the leaves. Before he could answer she had stopped at one of the pages; she turned the book round to him, pointing out a speech.
Nona Vincent was the heroine of the play, and Mrs. Alsager had taken a tremendous fancy to her. "I can't TELL you how I like that woman!" she exclaimed in a pensive rapture of credulity which could only be balm to the artistic spirit. "I'm awfully glad she lives a bit. What I feel about her is that she's a good deal like YOU," Wayworth observed. 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.
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