"Do you really want to keep her?" Sherringham asked of Madame Carré--quite as if thinking for a moment that this after all might be possible.
She bent her strange eyes on him. "No, you're all too queer together. We couldn't be bothered with you and you're not worth it."
"I'm glad it's 'together' that we're queer then--we can console each other."
"If you only would; but you don't seem to! In short I don't understand you--I give you up. But it doesn't matter," said the old woman wearily, "for the theatre's dead and even you, _ma toute-belle_, won't bring it to life. Everything's going from bad to worse, and I don't care what becomes of you. You wouldn't understand us here and they won't understand you there, and everything's impossible, and no one's a whit the wiser, and it's not of the least consequence. Only when you raise your arms lift them just a little higher," Madame Carré added.
"My mother will be happier _chez nous_" said Miriam, throwing her arms straight up and giving them a noble tragic movement.
"You won't be in the least in the right path till your mother's in despair."
"Well, perhaps we can bring that about even in London," Sherringham patiently laughed.
"Dear Mrs. Rooth--she's great fun," Mr. Dashwood as imperturbably dropped.
Miriam transferred the dark weight of her gaze to him as if she were practising. "_You_ won't upset her, at any rate." Then she stood with her beautiful and fatal mask before her hostess. "I want to do the modern too. I want to do _le drame_, with intense realistic effects."
"And do you want to look like the portico of the Madeleine when it's draped for a funeral?" her instructress mocked. "Never, never. I don't believe you're various: that's not the way I see you. You're pure tragedy, with _de grands éclats de voix_ in the great style, or you're nothing."
"Be beautiful--be only that," Peter urged with high interest. "Be only what you can be so well--something that one may turn to for a glimpse of perfection, to lift one out of all the vulgarities of the day."
Thus apostrophised the girl broke out with one of the speeches of Racine's Phædra, hushing her companions on the instant. "You'll be the English Rachel," said Basil Dashwood when she stopped.