Mrs. Rose was watching her, and guessed something of what was passing in the girl's mind. "My dear," she said, with a bright and friendly smile, "it's all right; you really are wide awake, and you shall hear all about it from Fabian in a few minutes. And you haven't come into a den of anarchists, so don't be afraid. Only your chance has come at last, and you are to have the opportunity of doing a great, artistic thing—as great, perhaps, as any actress has ever done—and also of helping England. You may make history! Who knows?"
"Who knows, indeed?" said Charles Goodrick, the editor of the Daily Wire. "I hope it will be my privilege to record it in the columns of my paper."
The dinner was nearly over, but the remainder of it seemed interminably long to the waiting girl. In a swift moment, as it were, her whole life was changed. That morning she was a poor and almost friendless actress of the rank and file. Now she sat at dinner with a group of influential people whose names were known far and wide, whose influence was a real force in public affairs. And, somehow or other, they wanted her. She was an honoured guest. She was made to feel, and in a half-frightened way she did feel, that much depended upon her. What it was she did not know and could not guess; but the fact remained, and the consciousness of it was a strange mingling of exaltation, wonder, and fear.
At last Mrs. Rose smiled and nodded at Mary and rose from her seat.
"Don't be more than five minutes, Fabian," the hostess said, as she and Mary left the room.
When they were alone together she drew the girl to a big couch, covered with blue linen, and kissed her.
"We are to be friends," she said, "I am quite certain of it." And the lonely girl's heart went out to this winning and gracious young matron.
The four men came into the room, a maid brought coffee, cigarettes were lighted—Mrs. Rose smoked, but Mary did not—and the playwright took up a commanding position upon the hearth-rug.
Then he began. The mockery which was so frequent a feature of his talk was gone. He permitted himself neither pose nor paradox—he was in deadly earnest.
"For more than a year," he said, "I have searched in vain for an actress who could fill the chief woman's part in my new play. None of the ladies who have acted in my other plays would do. They were admirable in those plays, but this is quite different. I have never written anything like it before. I sincerely believe, and so do those who are associated with me in its production"—he looked over at Aubrey Flood—"that the play is a great work of art. But it is designed to be more, far more than that. It is designed to be a lever, a huge force in helping on the cause in which I believe and to which I have devoted my life—the cause of Socialism. I could not find any one capable of playing Helena Hardy, the heroine of the play. The play stands alone; yet is like no other play; no actress trained in the usual way, and however clever an artist, had the right personality. Then I saw you play. I knew at once, Miss Marriott, that I had found the lady for whom I was searching. Chance or Fate had thrown you in my way. In every detail you visualized my Helena Hardy for me. I am never mistaken. I was, and am, quite certain of it.