Then the actors appeared, still in their costumes, and mingled with the other guests, drinking tea and chatting. The Doña, eyebrows quizzically arched, came up to Teresa.
“My dear child, what were you thinking of? Just look at Mrs. Moore’s face! That, of course, makes up for a lot ... but, still! And I do hope they won’t think Spanish convents are like that nowadays.”
Thank goodness! The Doña, at least, had not smelt a rat.
Then she saw Guy coming towards her; for some reason or other, he looked relieved.
“I wish to God Haines would make his people stylisize their acting more—make them talk in more artificial voices in that sort of play. They ought to speak like the Shades in Homer; that would preserve the sense of the Past. There’s nothing that can be so modern as a voice.” He looked at her. “It’s funny ... you know, it’s not the sort of thing one would have expected you to write. It has a certain gush and exuberance, but it’s disgustingly pretty ... it really is, Teresa! Of course, one does get thrills every now and then, but I’m not sure if they’re legitimate ones—for instance, in the last scene but one, when Don Manuel becomes identified with the Year-Spirit.”
So that was it! He had feared that, according to his own canons, it would be much better than it was; hence his look of relief. She had a sudden vision of what he had feared a thing written by her would be like—something black and white, and slightly mathematical; dominoes, perhaps, which, given that the simple rule is observed that like numbers must be placed beside like, can follow as eccentric a course as the players choose, now in a straight line, now zigzagging, now going off at right angles, now again in a straight line; a sort of visible music. And, indeed, that line of ivory deeply indentured with the strong, black dots would be like the design, only stronger and clearer, made by an actual page of music; like that in a portrait she had once seen by Degas of a lady standing by a piano.
But she felt genuinely glad that her play should have achieved this, at least, that one person should feel happier because of it; and she was quite sincere when she said, “Well, Guy, it’s an ill wind, you know.”
He grew very red. “I haven’t the least idea what you mean,” he said angrily.
After that, Concha came up, and was very warm in her congratulations. Did she guess? If she did, she would rather die than show that she did. Teresa began to blush, and it struck her how amused Concha must be feeling, if she had guessed, at the collapse of Sister Assumcion’s love affairs, and at the final scene between Pilar and Assumcion—Pilar’s noble self-abasement, Assumcion’s confession of her own inferiority.
And David? He kept away from her, and she noticed that he was very white, and that his expression was no longer buoyant.