"I'm not coming," he announced. "Never meant to, either. Why, man, I should wreck your chance. Here's a letter with a gilt-edged lie in it. Have you the play? Yes. Now, look here; leave it in the hall with your overcoat. Persuade her, if you can, to listen to the last scene of the third act. Don't leave the house without giving her some of it, if you have to force it down her throat. She'll respect your determination. Report here."
"I c-c-can't r-r-read it," stammered Mark.
Tommy hit his desk so hard with his fist that the ink bespattered it.
"Mark," he said solemnly, "I am counting on your making an exhibition of yourself. Be sure to stammer, burst a blood-vessel, faint, have a fit, but stick to your job. Now—go!"
Mark was pushed out of the room by his friend. When the door slammed behind him Greatorex burst out laughing. "He won't stammer now, and he'll read his play."
Mark was shown by an irreproachable butler into a small room hung with silk and filled with Japanese furniture. The dominant note was the grotesque if not the monstrous. Everything—from the embroideries on the walls to the tiny carved figures in the cabinets—indicated the cult of deformity.
He was examining a bit of enamel when Mrs. Perowne came in, holding out both hands.
"Tommy's friends are always welcome here," she said graciously. "That's a nice bit—isn't it? It's not Japanese at all, but Byzantine, as I dare say you know."
Mark confessed that he knew nothing of enamels. He sat down, glancing at his hostess, who was not unconscious of his scrutiny and surprise. Always, men meeting her for the first time off the stage were amazed at her appearance of youth. She braved the light from the window with impunity. Hair, complexion, eyes might have belonged to a maiden of twenty. But the mouth—her most remarkable feature—betrayed the woman of maturity. It was large, finely curved, and mobile. Her eyes were of a rich chestnut tint.
"You want to tell me about a play?" she said, with a low laugh.