Lady Bracebridge looked incredulous. She put up her lorgnette and scanned Clara, who had just floated across the stage followed by Trinculo and Stephano.
'She is born to it.... I know what the French theatre is like. They are so sensible, don't expect anything else of their actresses.'
Verschoyle saw that it was useless to argue. Women will never relinquish their jealousy. He shifted uneasily in his seat: Lady Bracebridge was a great deal too clever for him and he saw himself being thrust against his will into marriage with her daughter, who had an affectation of cleverness and maddened him with remarks like,—
'That Ariel costume would make the sweetest dinner-frock. If I have one made, will you take me to Murray's?'
'Certainly not,' said Verschoyle.
Clara in her pure girlish voice had just sung 'Full fathom five thy father lies,' when Lady Bracebridge, in her most strident voice, which went ringing through the theatre, said,—
'I hear Charles Mann has a real wife who is raging with jealousy, simply raging. The most extraordinary story.'
Clara stopped dead, stood looking helplessly round, pulled herself together, and went on with the part. Verschoyle deliberately got up and walked out and round to the stage door, where already he found Lady Butcher in earnest converse with Sir Henry,—
'We can't have a scandal in the theatre, Henry. Everybody heard her....'
'The wicked old devil. Why didn't she keep her mouth shut?'