'Little girl,' said Sir Henry, 'I feel that you understand me. That is rare. After all, we actors are human. We are governed by the heart in a world that is standing on its head.'
He took out a little book and made a note of that last observation. Then with a sigh he leaned over and held Clara's hands, looked long into her large dark eyes, and said,—
'With such purity you could outstare the angels.'
For answer Clara outstared him, and he dropped her hands and began to hum. 'Opera!' he said. 'I feel opera in the air; music invading the theatre, uplifting the souls of the people.... Ah! life is not long enough....'
Clara began to feel sorry for him though she knew in her heart that this was precisely what he wanted.
'You mustn't be angry,' he rumbled in his deepest bass, 'if I tell you that Charles Mann ought to have his neck wrung.'
'But—you are going to do his Tempest?'
'If it were not for you, little girl, I would not have him near the theatre,' said Sir Henry, with a sudden heat.
'How dare you talk like that?' Clara was all on fire. 'It is an honour for you to be associated with him at all.'
Sir Henry laughed.