Robin Pierce, who had an instinct that was almost feminine in its subtlety, raged internally, and Rupert Carey, who, naturally acute, was always specially shrewd when his heart was in the game, openly showed his distaste for Miss Schley, and went about predicting her complete failure to capture the London public as an actress.
“She’s done it as a woman,” someone replied to him.
“Not the public, only the smart fools,” returned Carey.
“The smart fools have more influence on the public every day.”
Carey only snorted. He was in one of his evil moods that afternoon. He left the club in which the conversation had taken place, and, casting about for something to do, some momentary solace for his irritation and ennui, he bethought him of Sir Donald Ulford’s invitation and resolved to make a call at the Albany. Sir Donald would be out, of course, but anyhow he would chance it and shoot a card.
Sir Donald’s servant said he was in. Carey was glad. Here was an hour filled up.
With his usual hasty, decisive step he followed the man through a dark and Oriental-looking vestibule into a library, where Sir Donald was sitting at a bureau of teakwood, slowly writing upon a large, oblong sheet of foolscap with a very pointed pen.
He got up, looking rather startled, and held out his hand.
“I am glad to see you. I hoped you would come.”
“I’m disturbing a new poem,” said Carey.