“I never know what I propose to do. The greatest mistake in the world is to cut the picnic sandwiches before knowing what the weather will be.”
II
It was more to please his humour than from any liking for the lesser grades of courtship that Wynne came to amuse himself at the theatre by talking perilous rubbish to a highly unimportant young lady of the cast.
Never before had he indulged in this particular sport, and never, until lately, had the temptation to do so allured him.
To tell the truth, he was not a little flattered by the success of his early attempts at love badinage; although, had he chosen to look beneath the surfaces of the very shallow waters which were ruffled by his wit, he would have found little cause for self-congratulation.
Esme Waybury, the favoured, had an ax to grind. In her trivial soul was ambition to get on (“getting on” implying the receipt of a salary large enough to satisfy her tastes in shoe-leather and millinery). A little moral laxity is sometimes a short road to the realizations of these trifles. Favours, artfully bestowed in the right quarter, are often more fruitful of success than is genuine talent.
To her, Wynne Rendall was a power in the land—a power which, with a little tact, might easily be diverted toward herself. Without being affected by prickings of conscience, she decided, if occasion offered, she would compromise herself with him, and step lightly from the wreckage of her virtue to spheres of extravagance hitherto unattainable. To the furtherance of this ignoble end, she pouted, smiled, and performed those various verbal and facial evolutions which, for a hundred centuries, have served to divert mankind from the straight and narrow path.
Esme was one of those pouting darlings who look infinitely sad at the smallest word, with that quality of sadness which provokes thoughts of remedial kisses in the male mind.
Eve produced her first pout at an understudy rehearsal taken by Wynne.
“You know,” he had said, “you are very bad in this part.”