Hilda (nods and blushes).
Mrs. Dale (caressingly). Goose!—Well, to business. What is there?
Hilda. Nothing important, except a letter from Stroud & Fayerweather to say that the question of the royalty on Pomegranate Seed has been settled in your favor. The English publishers of Immolation write to consult you about a six-shilling edition; Olafson, the Copenhagen publisher, applies for permission to bring out a Danish translation of The Idol’s Feet; and the editor of the Semaphore wants a new serial—I think that’s all; except that Woman’s Sphere and The Droplight ask for interviews—with photographs—
Mrs. Dale. The same old story! I’m so tired of it all. (To herself, in an undertone.) But how should I feel if it all stopped? (The servant brings in a card.)
Mrs. Dale (reading it). Is it possible? Paul Ventnor? (To the servant.) Show Mr. Ventnor up. (To herself.) Paul Ventnor!
Hilda (breathless). Oh, Mrs. Dale—the Mr. Ventnor?
Mrs. Dale (smiling). I fancy there’s only one.
Hilda. The great, great poet? (Irresolute.) No, I don’t dare—
Mrs. Dale (with a tinge of impatience). What?
Hilda (fervently). Ask you—if I might—oh, here in this corner, where he can’t possibly notice me—stay just a moment? Just to see him come in? To see the meeting between you—the greatest novelist and the greatest poet of the age? Oh, it’s too much to ask! It’s an historic moment.