That reassured Verschoyle. He liked this deep, quiet man, and felt that he knew more than he allowed to appear, half-guessed indeed that he had played some great and secret part in Clara's life. He introduced him to Lady Bracebridge and her daughter, who had stayed to watch the huge audience melt away and to hold a little reception with congratulations on the success of 'their' play. Lady Bracebridge noticed Rodd's boots at once, an old pair of cracked patent leathers, but her daughter chattered to him,—
'Wasn't it all too sweet? I adore The Tempest. Caliban is such a dear, isn't he?'
Rodd smiled grimly but politely.
They made their way on to the stage where they found Charles Mann tipping the stage-hands. The stairs up from the stage were thronged with brilliant personages, all happy, excited, drinking in the atmosphere of success.... In Sir Henry's room Lady Butcher stood to receive her guests. 'Too delightful! ... The most charming production! ... Exquisite! ... Quite too awfully Ballet Russe!'
The players in their costumes, their eyes dilated with nervous excitement, their lips trembling with their hunger for praise, moved among the Jews, politicians, journalists, major and minor celebrities.... Sir Henry moved from group to group. He was at his most brilliantly witty.
But there was no Ariel. Several ladies who desired to ask her to lunch in their anxiety to invest capital in the new star, clamoured to see her.
'She is tired, poor child,' said Sir Henry, with an amorously proprietary air.
'But she must come,' said Lady Butcher, eager to exploit the interest Clara had aroused, and she bustled away.
Charles Mann came in at that moment and he was at once surrounded with twittering women.
'You must tell him,' said Rodd to Verschoyle, 'he must get out.... Will you let her go with him?'