Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: July 17, 2025
Wayworth assured himself first that Violet had left the theatre one of the actresses could tell him that she had seen her throw on a cloak, without changing her dress, and had learnt afterwards that she had, the next moment, flung herself, after flinging her aunt, into a cab. He had called her morbid, but she was immovable. Mrs.
Alsager, who contended that it might not be a joking matter to the poor girl. To this Wayworth, who now professed to hate talking about the passions he might have inspired, could only reply that he meant it couldn't make a difference to Mrs. Alsager.
Wayworth asked; but she had at that moment to go on. Standing where he could see her he thought that on this occasion she threw into her scene, which was the best she had in the play, a brighter art than ever before, a talent that could play with its problem. She appeared to be able to do them for every one but him that is for every one but Nona.
The only person who paid for it was really Mrs. Alsager: she had an infallible instinct for the perfect. She paid in her own way, and if Allan Wayworth had been a wage-earning person it would have made him feel that if he didn't receive his legal dues his palm was at least occasionally conscious of a gratuity.
Loder, as our young man was aware, meant the new "Renaissance," but though he reached home in the evening it was not to this convenient modern theatre that Wayworth first proceeded. He spent a late hour with Mrs. Alsager, an hour that throbbed with calculation. She told him that Mr.
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.
"The thing is to get them to read it. I could do that." "That's the utmost I ask. But it's even for that I shall have to wait." She looked at him with kind sisterly eyes. "You sha'n't wait." "Ah, you dear lady!" Wayworth murmured. "That is YOU may, but I won't! Will you leave me your copy?" she went on, turning the pages again. "Certainly; I have another."
She had been capable, while he was away, of a good piece of work at that foggy old playhouse the "Legitimate;" the piece was a clumsy rechauffe, but she at least had been fresh. Wayworth remembered Violet Grey hadn't he, for two years, on a fond policy of "looking out," kept dipping into the London theatres to pick up prospective interpreters?
Alsager, to whom he promised details that would amuse her in later and still happier hours. Her eyes were full of tears when he read her the last words of the finished work, and she murmured, divinely "And now to get it done, to get it done!" "Yes, indeed to get it done!" Wayworth stared at the fire, slowly rolling up his type-copy.
She was a charming, exemplary person, educated, cultivated, with highly modern tastes, an excellent musician. It was quite an artistic home not on the scale of Mrs. Wayworth went so far as to hint that it would be rather nice and human on Mrs. Alsager's part to go there they would take it so kindly if she should call on them.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking