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Updated: May 17, 2025
"Tremendously and it appears she has been fascinated by the part from the first." "Why then didn't she say so?" "Oh, because she's so funny." "She IS funny," said Mrs. Alsager, musingly; and presently she added: "She's in love with you." Wayworth stared, blushed very red, then laughed out.
"But fancy the patience I shall want, and how I shall have to watch and wait," said Allan Wayworth. "Do you see me hawking it about London?" "Indeed I don't it would be sickening." "It's what I shall have to do. I shall be old before it's produced." "I shall be old very soon if it isn't!" Mrs. Alsager cried. "I know one or two of them," she mused. "Do you mean you would speak to them?"
The young man's beginnings in London were difficult, and he had aggravated them by his dislike of journalism. Form in his sense was not demanded by English newspapers, and he couldn't give it to them in THEIR sense. The demand for it was not great anywhere, and Wayworth spent costly weeks in polishing little compositions for magazines that didn't pay for style.
But she was curious about the girl, wanted to hear of her character, her private situation, how she lived and where, seemed indeed desirous to befriend her. Wayworth might not have known much about the private situation of Miss Violet Grey, but, as it happened, he was able, by the time his play had been three weeks in rehearsal, to supply information on such points.
She has given all she has got, and she doesn't know what's wanted." "What's wanted is simply that she should go straight on and trust me." "How can she trust you when she feels she's losing you?" "Losing me?" Wayworth cried. "You'll never forgive her if your play is taken off!" "It will run six months," said the author of the piece. The old lady laid her hand on his arm.
And with a sharp click Mrs. Alsager dropped the lid on the fragrant receptacle. "Not yet not yet!" laughed her visitor. "You will be if she pulls you through." "You declare that she WON'T pull me through." Mrs. Alsager was silent a moment, after which she softly murmured: "I'll pray for her." "You're the most generous of women!" Wayworth cried; then coloured as if the words had not been happy.
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.
The morrow, which was a Wednesday, was the dreadful day; the theatre had been closed on the Monday and the Tuesday. Every one, on the Wednesday, did his best to let every one else alone, and every one signally failed in the attempt. 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.
Hyperion to a satyr! It's devilish good, my boy!" "It's devilish good," said Wayworth, "and it's in a different key altogether from the key of her rehearsal." "I'll run you six months!" the manager declared; and he rushed round again to the actress, leaving Wayworth with a sense that she had already pulled him through. She had with the audience an immense personal success.
It was hedged about with sordid approaches, it was not worth sacrifice and suffering. The man of letters, in dealing with it, would have to put off all literature, which was like asking the bearer of a noble name to forego his immemorial heritage. Aspects change, however, with the point of view: Wayworth had waked up one morning in a different bed altogether.
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