Sir Augustus was not yet able to leave the house, but his gout was better. After the simple dinner—which was all that the doctor allowed him—he sat in his library reading the newspaper of that morning.
The first thing that caught his eye was a review of a new play which had just been produced under the title of "The Golden Maiden." Sir Augustus was an occasional patron of the burlesque stage. The sort of entertainments provided by the theatres that produce "musical comedy" were quite to his taste. Kindly and generous as he was, he was a man without any religious belief whatever and with no ideals. To such a mind, the indelicacy and lubricity of these plays appealed intensely, and afforded him great amusement. Nor had he the slightest idea that any blame whatever could attach to him. These places were crowded night after night by all sections of society—who was he to stay away?
Sir Augustus chuckled over the criticism. The writer first gave a detailed synopsis of the plot—such as it was—and recorded his general impressions of the performance. The critic was obviously a man of taste and decent feeling, for he spoke in no measured terms of the gross indecency of the play, which was, to put it plainly, little more nor less than a glorification of adultery.
"And the pity of it is," the writer concluded, "that all London will flock to see this immoral nonsense. If the drama is to be thus degraded—and no other form of entertainment has an equal popularity with the one under discussion—then decent English men and women will begin to long for the return of the Commonwealth, with its stern and self-sacrificing simplicity."
Sir Augustus put the paper down.
"Silly fool," he muttered. "I wonder he is allowed to write such hypocritical twaddle. Certainly, from what he says, they do seem to have gone a little too far this time."
Nevertheless, Sir Augustus made a mental resolve to look in at the Frivolity for an hour or two as soon as ever his leg would let him.
He put down the paper and lit a cigar. All round him were the evidences of enormous wealth. The library was a large and beautiful room. A fire of cedar logs glowed in the open hearth, and threw flickering lights—rose-pink and amethyst—upon the gold and crimson books standing in their carved-oak shelves.
The parquet floor was almost hidden by priceless rugs from Teheran—white, brick-dust color, and peacock-blue. There was a marvellous console which had belonged to Marie Antoinette, a buhl clock which had stood in the palace of Sans Souci, and was a gift to Frederick The Great from Voltaire. As Sir Augustus looked round he forgot "The Golden Maiden," and sighed. He was thinking of his dead nephew, Lluellyn Lys, and wishing that he had a son to succeed to all these splendors.
The door opened, and Lady Kirwan entered, tall, stately, and beautiful still, in her flowing black dinner-gown and the heavy ropes of pearls around the white column of her neck.