"Prostitute your art," supplied Mathilda, unable to curb an irrepressible tongue.
He flushed, but said: "Yes, that's what I do mean, though I've no doubt you're laughing at me. Do you think - do you suppose there's the least hope of Mr. Herriard's being interested?"
She did not, but although she was in general an honest woman, she could not bring herself to say so. He was looking at her with such a dreadfully anxious expression on his thin face that she began, almost insensibly, to turn over vague plans in her mind for cajoling Nathaniel.
"It wouldn't cost much," he said wistfully. "Even if he doesn't care about art, he might like to give Paula a chance. She's quite marvellous in the part, you know. He'll see that. She's going to do the big scene, just to show him."
"What is her part?" Mathilda enquired, feeling herself incapable of explaining that Nathaniel profoundly disliked his niece's association with the stage.
"She's a prostitute," said the author simply.
Mathilda spilt her tea. Wild ideas of imploring Roydon not to be fool enough to read his play gave way, as she dried the skirt of her frock, to a fatalistic feeling that nothing she could say would be likely to prevent this young man from rushing on to his doom.
Stephen, who had strolled across the room to the cakestand, saw her spill her tea, and tossed her his handkerchief. "Clumsy wench! Here, have this!"
"Tea stains things absolutely fatally," said Valerie.
"Not if you rub hard enough," returned Mathilda, using Stephen's handkerchief vigorously.