"And did she kill her husband?" asked Beatrice.
"Yes, with the help of his armour-bearer Helmichis."
Having thus set forth the argument, Lorelie, unfolding her manuscript, began to read certain scenes from her play. The reading of them was a revelation both to Idris and Beatrice: there was a masculine vigour in the lines: the thoughts were as noble as they were original, and graced by many poetic images and by passages of exquisite beauty.
Charmed by the melody of Lorelie's voice, charmed still more by the lovely face set in a frame of dark hair, Idris sat entranced, with something more than admiration in his eyes. And as Beatrice observed his rapt attitude, his accelerated breathing, she trembled uneasily; not for herself, but for Lorelie. In the near future, when the young viscountess should have come to learn the worthlessness of her husband, and to experience the misery of existence with him, would she have sufficient strength and purity of soul to resist the temptation of flying to the arms of Idris? Their meeting with each other was a foolish playing with fire, and could have but one ending. Beatrice ceased to listen to the reading of the play, and grew miserable with her own thoughts.
"Lady Walden," said Idris, when she had finished her recital, "your drama is a work of real genius."
His praise was sweeter to Lorelie than the praise of a thousand other critics, and her cheek flushed with triumph.
"You certainly ought to have it put upon the stage," he continued.
"Yes," chimed in Ivar: for even his sullen nature had been moved to admiration: "you must not hide your light under a bushel. If one is a genius, let the world know it."
"If this play should ever be acted," said Lorelie, "then let me take the chief part in it. Who more fit to play the rôle of Rosamond than the creator of Rosamond?"
"Well, whenever you desire to begin rehearsals," said Idris, jocularly, "Miss Ravengar can supply you with one item of stage property in the shape of a real skull."