‘Great suffering and all-enduring Saints of God,’ apostrophized Jacko, ‘give me some patience with this Quaking Thing.’

But Gay’s cries mounted in a sharp crescendo. She flung out her arms and beat with her fists on the dressing-table. A bottle of wet-white rocked to and fro, over-balanced, rapped smartly against the looking-glass and fell over. A neatly splintered star frosted the surface of the glass.

Gay pointed to it with an air of crazy triumph, snatched up her towel, and scrubbed it across her make-up. She thrust her face, blotched and streaked with black cosmetic, at Jacko.

‘Don’t you like what you see?’ she quoted, and rocketed into genuine hysteria.

Five minutes later Jacko walked down the passage towards Adam Poole’s room leaving J.G., who had rushed to the rescue in his shirtsleeves, in helpless contemplation of the screaming Gay. Jacko disregarded the open doors and the anxious painted faces that looked out at him.

Bennington shouted from his room:

‘What the hell goes on? Who is that?’

‘Listen,’ Jacko began, thrusting his head in at the door. He looked at Bennington and stopped short. ‘Stay where you are,’ he said and crossed the passage to Poole’s room.

Poole had swung round in his chair to face the door. Bob Cringle stood beside him twisting a towel in his hands.

‘Well?’ Poole said. ‘What is it? Is it Gay?’

‘She’s gone up. Sky high. I can’t do anything nor can J.G. and I don’t believe anyone can. She refuses to go on.’

‘Where’s John. Is this his doing?’

‘God knows. I don’t think so. He came in an hour ago and said he’d be back at five-to-seven.’

‘Has Ben tried?’

‘She does nothing but scream that she never wants to see him again. In my opinion, Ben would be fatal.’

‘He must be able to hear all this.’

‘I told him to stay where he is.’

Poole looked sharply at Jacko and went out. Gay’s laughter had broken down in a storm of irregular sobbing that could be heard quite clearly. Helena Hamilton called out, ‘Adam, shall I go to her?’ and he answered from the passage, ‘Better not I think.’

He was some time with Gay. They heard her shouting. ‘No. No. I won’t go on. No,’ over and over again like an automaton.

When he came out he went to Helena Hamilton’s room. She was dressed and made-up. Martyn, with an ashen face, stood inside the doorway.

‘I’m sorry, darling,’ Poole said, ‘but you’ll have to do without a dresser.’

The call-boy came down the passage chanting:

‘Half-hour. Half-hour, please.’

Poole and Martyn looked at each other.

‘You’ll be all right,’ he said.

CHAPTER SIX

Performance

AT TEN-TO-EIGHT Martyn stood by the entrance.