Eileen went off on her errand without venturing to put the question which obviously was trembling on her lips. Westenhanger sat down to await the arrival of his audience.
The first to appear were Mrs. Brent and Wraxall. Mrs. Brent was plainly rather mistrustful.
“Is this another of these peculiarly unsatisfactory general meetings, Mr. Westenhanger? I hardly expected to find you issuing invitations of the kind.”
“Didn’t my messenger reassure you?” countered Westenhanger, with a smile.
“Well, I hope my character’s not going to be dissected this time,” she retorted tartly. “If I’m dragged into it in any form, I warn you I shall simply go away.”
Westenhanger’s amusement grew more apparent.
“Don’t make too rash promises,” he advised. “I don’t think you’ll ask for your money back at the door if you manage to sit through the first act. This play gets brighter as it progresses.”
Wraxall looked at Westenhanger quizzically.
“What particular brand of drama do you specialise in? Is it tragedy? Tragedy’s hardly my line. Nor yet is sob-stuff. I don’t seem to react much to sob-stuff. Or are you a Happy-Ender? I’d rather you were. It’s preferable. I don’t care about having an attack of catawampus as the curtain flips down.”
“I’ll hear your criticisms afterwards,” Westenhanger said lightly.