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Updated: May 17, 2025
The manager stared, glanced at the actress, who turned in the other direction, and then smiling at Wayworth, exclaimed, with the humour of a man who heard the gallery laugh every night: "I say I say!" "What's the matter?" Wayworth asked. "I'm glad to see Miss Grey is taking such pains with you." "Oh, yes she'll turn me out!" said the young man, gaily.
He kept himself quiet in the entr'actes he would speak to her only at the end; but before the play was half over the manager burst into his box. "It's prodigious, what she's up to!" cried Mr. Loder, almost more bewildered than gratified. "She has gone in for a new reading a blessed somersault in the air!" "Is it quite different?" Wayworth asked, sharing his mystification. "Different?
I can't sufficiently admire the talent and tact with which you make one accept it, and I tell you frankly that it's evident to me there must be a brilliant future before a young man who, at the start, has been capable of such a stroke as that. Thank heaven I can admire Nona Vincent as intensely as I feel that I don't resemble her!" "Don't exaggerate that," said Allan Wayworth. "My admiration?"
Like Allan Wayworth she found her encouraging only by fits, for she had fine flashes of badness. She was intelligent, but she cried aloud for training, and the training was so absent that the intelligence had only a fraction of its effect. She was like a knife without an edge good steel that had never been sharpened; she hacked away at her hard dramatic loaf, she couldn't cut it smooth.
Standing near him she read to herself a passage here and there; then, in her sweet voice, she read some of them out. "Oh, if YOU were only an actress!" the young man exclaimed. "That's the last thing I am. There's no comedy in ME!" She had never appeared to Wayworth so much his good genius. "Is there any tragedy?" he asked, with the levity of complete confidence.
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.
She was enviably free to act upon her likings, and it made Wayworth feel less unsuccessful to infer that for the moment he happened to be one of them. He kept the revelation to himself, and indeed there was nothing to turn his head in the kindness of a kind woman. Mrs.
"I mean they'll now be of a totally different order," Wayworth explained. "It seems to me there can be nothing in the world more difficult than to write a play that will stand an all-round test, and that in comparison with them the complications that spring up at this point are of an altogether smaller kind." "Yes, they're not inspiring," said Mrs.
Wayworth drove early to Notting Hill, but he didn't take the newspapers with him; Violet Grey could be trusted to have sent out for them by the peep of dawn and to have fed her anguish full. She declined to see him she only sent down word by her aunt that she was extremely unwell and should be unable to act that night unless she were suffered to spend the day unmolested and in bed.
"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.
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