“We are expectin’ great things of you, Lady Elfreda.” The loud voiced little man opposite was addressing her personally. “They say you absolutely knocked ’em in Yorkshire. I hope you’ll like your part. It was written for you specially.”
“Why, Philpot, you’ve not seen Lady Elfreda act,” said the host in his rich, rollicking tactless way.
“’Tisn’t always necessary,” said the author of “The Lady of Laxton” stoutly, “to see a woman act in order to write a part for her. Sardou did it over and over again. So did Scribe. So has Pin I’m sure—and all of ’um.”
“Doesn’t sound very convincing, Sir Toby,” said the voice of the yellow chrysanthemum lady from the other end of the table, who like her husband could not claim that tact was her long suit. “But it’ll be all right on the night no doubt. By the way is there any one here who has seen Lady Elfreda act?”
Girlie held her breath. The pause which followed Mrs. Minever’s words seemed so painfully long, so intensely dramatic. Would it never end? A shiver crept along the spine of the Deputy. Beneath the eyes of the entire table she felt herself to be turning green.
“What?—No one!” said the hostess.
No one had apparently.
“That’s a bit of luck for you, Lady Elfreda,” said the host with his jovial air.
The whole table laughed. Girlie began to breathe again.
“But Lady Elfreda’s escape is only temporary,” the hostess announced. “To-morrow Mr. Montagu Jupp is coming. And he claims to have taught Lady Elfreda all the acting she knows.”