He smiled as he spoke, for there flitted across his mind’s eye several amusing episodes in the recent struggles after dramatic art.
“Your daughter,” he went on, “has really improved surprisingly. I own I was rather nervous about her till quite at the end. But it went so very fairly to-night that I think we need have no misgivings. Besides, after all, there is no terribly critical audience to fear; every one will, I hope, wish to be pleased.”
Mrs Wentworth’s expression took a touch of offence at Major Winchester’s tone about Imogen.
“I heard several people saying that ‘Valesca’ was the gem of it all,” she said, and Rex, glancing at her, detected his mistake. “She really is too silly,” he reflected; “she cannot imagine that child, pretty as she is, to be a Mrs Siddons in embryo.” But his quick kind-heartedness made him add aloud: “I can well believe that, as far as appearance goes, that opinion will be pretty general. The dress, too, is remarkably becoming to Im— to Miss Wentworth. Still, dramatic power, even in a small degree, is a distinct gift, like talent for music, sculpture, or any art. It cannot be acquired, though it may be developed.”
He was already rather beyond his hearer’s range, though his words were intended as an explanation. But they had the effect of smoothing down her ruffled plumage—or rather, perhaps, his manner did so.
“Of course, he does not want me to imagine for an instant that he could say anything derogatory to Imogen,” she reflected. “And after all, unless he felt quite a peculiar interest in her, he would not speak so frankly,” and her tone was quite itself again as she replied.
“I am sure Imogen should be, and is, most grateful to you, Major Winchester. She has said ever so many times that she never could have managed it but for your help. I think she acted beautifully to-night,”—and the simplicity with which she said this pleased Rex—“but then I am not nearly clever enough to be a judge.”
“I myself did really think it very—extremely pretty,” he said. “And it has been a great pleasure to me to help her, I need scarcely assure you.”
“You have been our good angel ever since our first arrival here,” said Mrs Wentworth. “Dear Imogen was saying so only yesterday. Altogether, when I remember our distress that wet morning at the station, and your appearing just at the right moment—it was quite romantic.” She hesitated a little. “Now is his time,” she thought. But Major Winchester did not seem on the alert, and he again detected the slight tendency to “gush” in her tone, which had before this disappointed him in Imogen’s mother. “I am always so, I fear, really, foolishly anxious about my darling child,” she went on. “My only one, and—alone as we are.”
“But after all, it ended all right, did it not?” he said. “Miss Wentworth did not take the least cold, nor did you yourself, I think.”