“Yes. Hamilton Bradley is all right again, and we've found a pretty fair local Judas—amateur. We couldn't possibly put it on without Mr. Bradley. He takes the part of”—Hilda glanced at the hem of the listening priestly robe—“of the chief character, you know.”
“That was the great Nonconformist success at home last year, wasn't it?” Arnold asked; “Leslie Patullo's play? I knew him at Oxford. I can't imagine—he's a queer chap to be writing things like that.”
“It works out better than you—than one might suppose,” Hilda returned, moving toward the door. “Some of the situations are really almost novel, in spite of all your centuries of preaching.” She sent a disarming smile with that, looking over her shoulder in one of her most effective hesitations, one hand holding back the portiere.
“And next week?” cried Alicia.
“Oh, next week we do L'Amourette de Giselle—Frank Golding's re-vamp. Good-bye! Good-bye!”
“I wonder very much what Patullo has done with The Offence of Galilee,” Arnold said, after she had gone.
“Come and see, Stephen. We have a box, and there will be heaps of room. It's—suitable, isn't it?”
“Oh, quite.”
“Then dine with us—the Yardleys are coming—and go on. Why not?”
“Thanks very much indeed. It is sure to reward one. I think I shall be able to give myself that pleasure.”