The rest of Roydon's play was read to the accompaniment of the measured click of Maud's needles. It was by no means a bad play; sometimes, Mathilda thought, it hovered on the edge of brilliance; but it was no play to read to a drawing-room audience. As she had expected, it was often violent, always morbid; and it contained much that could with advantage have been omitted. Paula enjoyed herself immensely in the big scene; and neither she nor Roydon seemed capable of realising that the spectacle of his niece impersonating a fallen woman under tragic circumstances was unlikely to afford Nathaniel the least gratification. Indeed, it was only by a tremendous effort of will-power that Nathaniel was able to control himself; and while Paula's deep voice vibrated through the room, he grew more and more fidgety, and muttered under his breath in a way that boded ill for both dramatist and actress.
It was past seven o'clock before the play ended, and during the last act Nathaniel three times consulted his watch. Once, Stephen said something in his ear which made him smile grimly, but when Roydon at last laid down his typescript there was no trace of a smile on his face. He said in awful tones: "Very edifying!"
Paula, carried away by her own performance, was deaf to the note of anger in his voice. Her dark eyes glowed; there was a lovely colour in her cheeks; and her thin, expressive hands were restless, as always when she was excited. She started towards Nathaniel, holding out those hands. "Isn't it a wonderful play? Isn't it?"
Mathilda, Joseph, Valerie, and even Mottisfont, whom Wormwood had profoundly shocked, hurried into speech, drowning whatever blistering things Nathaniel meant to say. Stephen lounged at his ease, and watched them derisively. Dread of what Nathaniel might yet say to Roydon made them praise the play in exaggerated terms. Roydon was pleased, and triumphant, but his eyes kept travelling to his host's face with an expression on them of so much anxiety that everyone felt sorry for him, and repeated that the play was arresting, original, and quite made one think.
Paula, with an obtuseness which made Mathilda want to shake her, brushed aside the compliments she was receiving on her acting, and again attacked her uncle. "Now that you've heard it, Uncle Nat, you will help Willoughby, won't you?"
"If by that you mean will I give you the money to squander on a piece of what I can only call salacious balderdash, no, I won't!" he responded, not, however, in a loud enough voice to be overheard by the author. .
Paula stared at him, as though she scarcely grasped his meaning. "Can't you see - can't you see that the part is made for me?" she asked, with a little gasp.
"Upon my soul!" exploded Nathaniel. "I should like to know what the world is coming to when a girl of your breeding can stand there and tell me the part of a harlot is made for her!"
"That out-of-date rubbish!" Paula said contemptuously. "We are talking of Art!"
"Oh, we are, are we?" said Nathaniel, in a grim voice. "And I suppose that is your idea of Art, is it, young woman? Well, all I have to say is that it isn't mine!"