"Only the three lines! No more! They are the very essence of poetry—poetry at its purest. We'll see the effect of them on Mr. Machin. We'll just see. It's the ideal opportunity to test my theory. Now, there's a good girl!"
"Oh! I can't. I'm too nervous," stammered Rose.
"You can, and you must," said Carlo, gazing at her in homage. "Nobody in the world can say them as well as you can. Now!"
Rose Euclid stood up.
"One moment," Carlo stopped her. "There's too much light. We can't do with all this light. Mr. Machin—do you mind?"
A wave of the hand and all the lights were extinguished, save a lamp on the mantelpiece, and in the disconcertingly darkened room Rose Euclid turned her face towards the ray from this solitary silk-shaded globe.
Her hand groped out behind her, found the table-cloth and began to scratch it agitatedly. She lifted her head. She was the actress, impressive and subjugating, and Edward Henry felt her power. Then she intoned:
And she ceased and sat down. There was a silence.
"Bra vo!" murmured Carlo Trent.
"Bravo!" murmured Mr. Marrier.