She left the room. Near the door stood Grace Danver and another actress, both of whom were bidden to wait upon the manager before leaving. Clara passed under the fire of their eyes, but scarcely observed them.
Rain drenched her between the theatre and her lodgings, for she did not think of putting up an umbrella; she thought indeed of nothing; there was fire and tumult in her brain. On the round table in her sitting-room supper was made ready, but she did not heed it. Excitement compelled her to walk incessantly round and round the scanty space of floor. Already she had begun to rehearse the chief scenes of Laura Denton; she spoke the words with all appropriate loudness and emphasis; her gestures were those of the stage, as though an audience sat before her; she seemed to have grown taller. There came a double knock at the house-door, but it did not attract her attention; a knock at her own room, and only when some one entered was she recalled to the present. It was Grace again; her lodging was elsewhere, and this late visit could have but one motive.
They stood face to face. The elder woman was so incensed that her lips moved fruitlessly, like those of a paralytic.
‘I suppose you’re going to make a scene,’ Clara addressed her. ‘Please remember how late it is, and don’t let all the house hear you.’
‘You mean to tell me you accepted that offer of Peel’s—without saying a word—without as much as telling him that he ought to speak to me first?’
‘Certainly I did. I’ve waited long enough; I’m not going to beat about the bush when my chance comes.’
‘And you called yourself my friend?’
‘I’m nobody’s friend but my own in an affair of this kind. If you’d been in my place you’d have done just the same.’
‘I wouldn’t! I couldn’t have been such a mean creature! Every man and woman in the company’ll cry shame on you.’
‘Don’t deafen me with your nonsense! If you played the part badly, I suppose some one else must take it. You were only on trial, like I shall be.’