Lady Susan was angry at first, and then she became witty. Her sallies, directed against him in every scene, were, however, lost upon him, no matter how calculated they were to sting him; he was too self-satisfied to be affected by any criticism that might be offered to him by man or woman.
And then Lady Susan was compelled to abandon her wit and to become natural. She flounced off the stage when her lover (in the play) was more than commonly loutish, and burst into tears of vexation in the arms of her dear friend Lady Sarah Lennox.
“I never had such a chance until now,” she cried. “Never, oh, never! The part might have been written for me; and I implore of you, Sarah, to tell me candidly if Mrs. Abington or Mrs. Clive could act it with more sprightliness than I have shown in that last scene?”
“Impossible, my sweet Sue!” cried her friend. “I vow that I have never seen anything more arch than your mock rejection of your lover, only to draw him on.”
“You dear creature!” cried Lady Sue. “You are a true friend and a competent critic, Sarah. But what signifies my acting, perfect though it be, when that—that idiot fails to respond in any way to the spirit which I display? The whole play will be damned, and people who know nothing of the matter will spread the report that 'twas my lack of power that brought about the disaster.”
“They cannot be so vile,” said Lady Sarah soothingly.
“But they will. I know how vile some of our friends can be when it suits them, and when they are jealous of the acquirements of another. They will sneer at my best scenes—oh, the certainty that they will do so will be enough to make my best scenes fail. But no! they shall not have the chance of maligning me. I will go to Sir Francis and resign my part. Yes, I will! I tell you I shall!”
The indignant young lady, with something of the stage atmosphere still clinging to her, flung herself with the gesture of a tortured heroine, proud and passionate, toward the door of the room to which the two ladies had retired. But before she had her fingers on the handle the door opened and Sir Francis Délavai entered.
“A thousand pardons, my dear ladies,” he cried, bowing to the carpet. “I had forgot for the moment that when a man turns his house into a theatre he can call no room in it his own. But I should be a churl to suggest that any room in my poor house would not be made beautiful by the presence of your ladyships. After all, this is only my library, and a library is only a polite name for a dormitory, and a—but what is this? I said not a lacrymatory.”
He was looking curiously into Lady Susan's face, which retained the marks of her recent tears.