She was several years younger than her brother Stephen, and resembled him scarcely at all. She was pretty, in the style made popular by Burne-Jones, with thick, springy hair, a short, full upper lip, and dark eyes set widely under discontented brows. There was an air of urgency about her; you could see it in her restless movements, in the sudden glow in her changeable eyes, and in the hungry line of her mouth. She had a beautiful voice, like a stringed instrument. It was mellow, and flexible, which made her the ideal choice for a Shakespearean rôle. It cast into shocking relief the light, metallic tones of her contemporaries, with their clipped vowels, and the oddly common inflexions they so carefully cultivated. She knew how to throw it, too: no doubt about that, thought Mathilda, hearing it float upstairs from the hall.

She heard her own name. ‘In the Blue Room? Oh! I’ll go up!’

Mathilda sat back on her dressing-stool to await Paula’s entrance. In a minute or two there was a perfunctory knock on the door, and before she could call Come in! Paula had entered, bringing with her that uncomfortable feeling of impatience, of scarcely curbed energy.

‘Mathilda! Darling!’

‘’Ware my make-up!’ Mathilda exclaimed, dodging the embrace.

Paula chuckled, deep in her throat. ‘Idiot! I’m so glad to see you! Who’s here? Stephen? Valerie? Oh, that girl! My dear, if you knew the feeling I have here about her!’ She struck her chest as she spoke; her eyes quite blazed for a moment, but then she blinked her thick lashes, and laughed, and said: ‘Oh, never mind that! Brothers – ! I’ve brought Willoughby.’

‘Who is Willoughby?’ demanded Mathilda.

There was again that disconcerting flash. ‘One day no one will ask that question!’

‘Pending that day,’ said Mathilda, intent on her own eyebrows, ‘who is Willoughby?’

‘Willoughby Roydon. He has written a play…’

It was strange how much that throbbing voice and those fluttering hands could express. Mathilda said: ‘Oh? Unknown, dramatist?’

‘So far! But this play – ! Producers are such fools! We must have backing. Is Uncle Nat in a good mood? Has Stephen upset him? Tell me everything, Mathilda, quick!’

Mathilda laid down the eyebrow-pencil. ‘You haven’t brought your playwright here in the hope of winning Nat’s heart, Paula? My poor girl!’

‘He must do it for me!’ Paula said, impatiently pushing back the hair from her brow. ‘It’s art, Mathilda! Oh! When you have read it – !’

‘Art plus a part for Paula?’ murmured Mathilda.

The shaft glanced off Paula’s armour. ‘Yes. A part. Such a part! It was written for me. He says I inspired it.’

‘Sunday performance, and an audience composed of intellectuals. I know!’

‘Uncle has got to listen to me! I must play it. I must, Mathilda, do you hear me?’

‘Yes, my sweet, you must play it. Meanwhile, dinner will be ready in twenty minutes’ time.’

‘Oh, it doesn’t take me ten minutes to change!’ Paula said impatiently.