A stranger had merely to glance casually around to know that this was the apartment of one who was in some way connected with the drama. There were portraits everywhere: on the walls, the mantelpiece, the boudoir grand piano, and on both sides of a large screen; in fact, in every nook where there was the smallest space. Most of them portrayed the charms of well-known actors and actresses, some of them being the leading lights of the dramatic profession in England, America, and France. Art and music were also represented, although in a lesser degree; and each portrait was signed by the autograph of the original, in some cases supplemented by a friendly inscription.
The latest addition to this collection was a panel portrait of Celia Franks, in the character of Galatea, which was the last part in which she had performed at the Academy; and in close proximity to it sat Celia herself, carelessly stirring her tea. She was talking to the famous and marvellously beautiful actress, Mrs. Potter Wemyss, who, having at Haviland’s request attended the dress rehearsal of the new play, was so delighted with Celia’s acting as to wish to give her a few hints before the important first night. This was a great honour, for Mrs. Potter Wemyss did not usually trouble to give a novice the benefit of her advice; so Celia, appreciating it as such, listened with eager attention.
There were several other people in the room, including a little woman in black, who poured out the tea and spoke to nobody—she was the insignificant mistress of the house; Guy Haviland himself, genial as ever; his sister Grace, who was talking to Mrs. Neville Williams; and Lord Bexley, who sat silent in a far-off shadowy corner.
Bexley looked preoccupied as he absent-mindedly twirled his moustache. He watched Celia Franks and Mrs. Potter Wemyss, and wondered which of the two distinct types of beauty were the more perfect from the artistic point of view. Mrs. Potter Wemyss was Irish, with typical Irish eyes, and plump yet delicately moulded features. Celia, although her profile reminded him of a Greek statue, had the advantage of her Semitic descent; and with her red-gold hair would have made an excellent study for the Madonna, the accepted ideal of Jewish virginal beauty.
Bexley admired lovely women, especially when they were women of intelligence also, so that to gaze unobserved at these two afforded him keen pleasure. Their every movement was a graceful pose—perhaps studied in the case of the elder woman, but not so with the younger; and their long clinging gowns served to enhance the beauty of their well-proportioned forms.
“A pretty picture,” remarked Mrs. Neville Williams, in an undertone, suddenly appearing beside his chair. “Age instructing youth in the way of vice.”
She glanced towards the pair as she spoke. Her words jarred on Bexley in his present mood.
“I do not know why you should think that,” he returned with warmth. “I should say that Mrs. Potter Wemyss would be more likely to teach virtue than vice.”
“Oh yes”—with a laugh that was half a sneer,—“I know she is very good. Goes to church regularly, refuses to travel on Sunday, and won’t act during Lent. But it’s just a fad, you know, which she, being at the top of the ladder, can afford to indulge. It’s a good advertisement too. An actress does not usually possess a reputation of that kind.”
Bexley wondered what it was that made Mrs. Neville Williams so ungenerous to those of her own sex. Whenever he met her, which was very frequently of late—more often, if the truth be known, than he desired,—she always had something spiteful to say about one of their mutual acquaintance. He did not admire this trait in her character, and generally felt called upon to defend the lady who happened to be under discussion.