“I’m not in the mood for strangers, but if Vickery wants it, why—of course. Did he say who it was?”
“Floyd Eldon.”
That name had a way of dropping into the air like a meteor. When two lovers have fought over an outsider’s name that name always recurs with all its battle clamor. It is as hard to mention idly as “Gettysburg” or “Waterloo.”
Sheila knew what Bret had said of Eldon, what he had thought of him and done to him. She was amazed, and it is hard not to look guilty when old accusations of guilt are remembered. Bret saw the sudden tensity in her hands where they held the arms of her chair. He felt a miserable return of the old nausea, the incurable regret of love that it can never count on complete possession of its love, past, present, and future. But he was committed now to the conviction that he could not keep Sheila behind bars, and had no right to try. He had given her back to herself and the world, as one uncages a bird, hoping that it will hover about the house and return, but never sure what will draw it, or whither, once it has climbed into the sky.
To escape the ordeal of watching Sheila, and the ordeal of being questioned, he called up Vickery’s’ number and told him to come over at once, and added, “Both of you.”
Then he hung up the receiver and went forward to face Sheila’s eyes. He told her all that had happened except his appeal to Eldon and their conspiracy to get her back on the stage.
She was agitated immensely, and risked his further suspicion by setting to work to primp and to change her gown to one that her nature found more appropriate to such an audition.
Eldon and Vickery arrived while she was in the dressing-room, and Bret whispered to them:
“I haven’t told her that the play is for her. Don’t let her know.”
This threw Eldon and Vickery into confusion, and they greeted Sheila with helpless insincerity.