Hitherto his playgoing had been confined to a yearly visit to the local pantomime, a performance which had made no special appeal to him. As master of his own choice he repaired to Shakespeare’s Henry VIII., and was vastly impressed by the splendour of it all. Here and there he found himself at variance with the actors’ renderings of certain passages, and during the intervals ruminated upon alternative readings. On the whole, however, the experience was delightful.
At the conclusion he emerged from the theatre in a state of artistic intoxication. He longed for a companion to whom he could express the views which the play had set in motion—any one would do so long as he might speak his thoughts aloud. With all these jostling crowds it was absurd that any one should be denied an audience. Surely some one would be glad to lend an ear. There must be some companionable soul in this great city with a thirst for knowledge and enlightenment.
“The clouds that gather round the setting sun.” Wolsey had been wrong to betray so much emotion in delivering that speech. A man like Wolsey would see grim humour in his own downfall. It was contrary to the character, as he saw it, to stress the emotions of such a coming to pass. Wynne knew the speech intimately, and felt a great desire to repeat it aloud in the way it should be repeated. The Haymarket was hardly a place for such a recital, so he turned into Orange Street and the narrow thoroughfares adjoining. Here in a shadow he began the lines, but had hardly uttered a sound before a step caused him to stop. Looking round he saw a girl walking slowly toward him. A fur swung from her shoulders and a bag dangled in her hand. The white of her boots seemed phosphorescent in the half-light. As she came abreast of him their eyes met. Hers were bold and black-lashed, and the lids drooped in lazy insolence.
“Kiddie,” she said, “coming home?”
And Wynne was startled into replying:
“Why, do you want a friend too?”
She curled her scarlet lips into a smile.
“I always want a friend,” she answered.
“I don’t,” he said; “only sometimes! Sometimes one feels one must confide. I feel like that tonight.”
“Confide in me, then. What’s to stop you?”