Matravers glanced at the paragraph.
“Certainly!”
Mr. Thorndyke threw the paper upon the table.
“Well,” he said, “I have no doubt it is an excellent piece of literary work—a satire I suppose you would call it—and I must congratulate you upon its complete success. I don’t mind running the theatre at a financial loss, but I have a distinct objection to being made a laughing stock of. I suppose this paper appeared about two hours ago, and already I can’t move a yard without having to suffer the condolences of some sympathizing ass. I shall close the theatre next week.”
“That is naturally,” Matravers said, “a matter of complete indifference to me. In the cause of art I should say that you will do well, unless you can select a play from a very different source. What I wrote of the performance last night, I wrote according to my convictions. You,” he added, turning to Berenice, “will at least believe that, I am sure!”
“Most certainly I do,” she assured him, holding out her hand. “Must you really go? You will come and see me again—very soon?”
He bowed over her fingers, and then their eyes met for a moment. She was very pale, but she looked at him bravely. He realized suddenly that Mr. Thorndyke’s threat was a serious blow to her.
“I am very sorry,” he said. “You will not bear me any ill will?”
“None!” she answered; “you may be sure of that!”