The thought of the approaching reading lay heavy on Mathilda’s brain. At no time fond of being read to, she thought the present hour and milieu so ill-chosen that nothing short of a miracle could save this party from disruption. Glancing at Roydon, who was nervously crumbling a cake, she felt a stir of pity for him. He was so much in earnest, torn between his belief in himself and his natural dread of reading his play to what he could not but recognise as an unsympathetic audience. She moved across the room to a chair beside him, and said, under cover of an interchange of noisy badinage between Valerie and Joseph: ‘I wish you’d tell me something about your play.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ll any of you like it,’ he said, with a sulkiness born of his nervousness.

‘Some of us may not,’ she replied coolly. ‘Have you had anything put on yet?’

‘No. At least, I had a Sunday-night show once. Not this play. Linda Bury was interested in it, but it didn’t come to anything. Of course, it was very immature in parts. I see that now. The trouble is that I haven’t any backing.’ He pushed an unruly lock of hair off his brow, and added defiantly: ‘I work in a bank!’

‘Not a bad way of marking time,’ she said, refusing to see in this belligerent confession anything either extraordinary or pathetic.

‘If I could only get a start, I’d – I’d never set foot inside the place again!’

‘You probably wouldn’t have to. Has your play got popular appeal?’

‘It’s a serious play. I don’t care about popular appeal, as you call it. I – I know I’ve got it in me to write plays – good plays! – but I’d sooner stick to banking all my life than – than –’

‘Prostitute your art,’ supplied Mathilda, unable to curb an irrepressible tongue.

He flushed, but said: ‘Yes, that’s what I do mean, though I’ve no doubt you’re laughing at me. Do you think – do you suppose there’s the least hope of Mr Herriard’s being interested?’

She did not, but although she was in general an honest woman, she could not bring herself to say so. He was looking at her with such a dreadfully anxious expression on his thin face that she began, almost insensibly, to turn over vague plans in her mind for cajoling Nathaniel.

‘It wouldn’t cost much,’ he said wistfully. ‘Even if he doesn’t care about art, he might like to give Paula a chance. She’s quite marvellous in the part, you know. He’ll see that. She’s going to do the big scene, just to show him.’

‘What is her part?’ Mathilda enquired, feeling herself incapable of explaining that Nathaniel profoundly disliked his niece’s association with the stage.

‘She’s a prostitute,’ said the author simply.

Mathilda spilt her tea. Wild ideas of imploring Roydon not to be fool enough to read his play gave way, as she dried the skirt of her frock, to a fatalistic feeling that nothing she could say would be likely to prevent this young man from rushing on to his doom.