There was again that disconcerting flash. "One day no one will ask that question!"
"Pending that day," said Mathilda, intent on her own eyebrows, "who is Willoughby?"
"Willoughby Roydon. He has written a play…'
It was strange how much that throbbing voice and those fluttering hands could express. Mathilda said: "Oh?
Unknown, dramatist?"
"So far! But this play - ! Producers are such fools! We must have backing. Is Uncle Nat in a good mood? Has Stephen upset him? Tell me everything, Mathilda, quick!"
Mathilda laid down the eyebrow-pencil. "You haven't brought your playwright here in the hope of winning Nat's heart, Paula? My poor girl!"
"He must do it for me!" Paula said, impatiently pushing back the hair from her brow. "It's art, Mathilda! Oh! When you have read it - !"
"Art plus a part for Paula?" murmured Mathilda.
The shaft glanced off Paula's armour. "Yes. A part. Such a part! It was written for me. He says I inspired it."