“That reminds me—I meant to speak of it when I first came—can’t you come with me one night to see this play, The Rut, that Peter’s putting on? He’s given me a box for all next week, knowing how I’ve always remained the matinée girl!”—Sheila’s face looked up for a moment from Margretta’s collar with an appealing ingenuousness—“and it would be jolly if we could all go; you two and Knollys and Timothy. Patsy, too, if she could be persuaded while Warren is away, and if she’ll leave the Angel. I don’t know much about the play’s merits,” added Sheila, indifferently. “But—they say it’s being talked about a good deal.”
“Timothy says it’s the most subtle satire of our generation,” put in Doromea, eagerly. “He’s been trying to get seats for us all week, but it was quite impossible. You see, a critic took him the first night, but they had to stand the whole time—it is good of you to ask us, Sheila!”
“That play is absolutely the only thing that could get me to town on a June night,” chimed in Ellen. “But that—why, it’s been running only ten days, and already it is a classic; what a pity the author can’t be here to receive his ovation! Mr. Butler gave it out that the man who wrote it is abroad, and won’t even allow his identity to be divulged. So extraordinary, in this day of the fame-greedy!”
“Perhaps he didn’t write the play for fame,” suggested Sheila, always continuing to count stitches. “Perhaps he wrote it just because he couldn’t help it; and now he wants to stay a Plain Person, with his home and children and all.”
“He has children, then? But, yes—of course; it said in the papers that that had been the most phenomenal part of his creation—introducing two perfectly natural children in a satire of society! And then they say he has the most remarkable range—that he handles theories of electricity and deepest economical problems with the same piercing ease that he does feminine psychology. The Rut!—you can’t know what a treat you’ll be giving us, Sheila.”
“Then we’ll say Monday night, shall we?” Sheila had a trick of reflecting other people’s eagerness—a quick little turn of the head, that was compelling of still more enthusiasm. “Hawley will be able to go Monday night, and we will motor you out in the new machine afterward.”
“Heavenly!” Doromea forgot that she had ever felt—vaguely—uncomfortable, and dropped her work again.
“You are such satisfactory society people,” sighed Ellen. “Except when you have to go away,” she added, as a siren blew its warning up the drive.
Sheila jumped up. “It’s the bondage of our rut,” she said, lightly, once more tying on the frilly bonnet; “you see, it is us this new playwright has satirized—and idealized a bit as well, perhaps? Doesn’t he show that we never go or stay, just as we please—that we’re forever doing the things we don’t want to do; just because we fit our groove so exactly? I think that’s it—awfully serious, isn’t it?” Her laugh rang softly amused as she went out to meet her husband. “Till Monday, then—you’ll meet us at the theatre at half past eight, and, oh—do bring Patsy—where is she?”
“Coming!” Patsy’s pretty auburn head appeared at the door—over the Angel whom she was holding. “Where am I to be brought, Sheila?”