F you please, ma'am, dinner is served.”
David Hardy, who had been staring into the fire, started and looked back over his shoulder into the room behind him. Then he smiled. The smile was tender, a trifle amused, and a trifle pitying; but it did not help to make him look younger or less bitter.
“Upon my word, I had forgotten you were there, Kit,” he said, as though excusing his movement of surprise. “What are you doing? I presume that remark about dinner was not addressed to me?”
“Goodness, no! It's my part—such a horrid, stupid little part! Fancy me as a comic servant in old, ugly clothes! And I ought to be playing leading lady! Oughtn't I, David?”
“No doubt,” he answered, looking back into the fire.
The little figure, which had been huddled together in the corner of the sofa, rose and threw the untidy, paper-covered book in the farther end of the room. Drawn to her full height, she must have measured an inch over five feet; and the extreme delicacy of her build made her seem smaller—almost childishly small.
At first sight, she looked pretty and well dressed. In reality, she was neither. Like the room, with its tawdry hangings and cheap New Art ornaments, she was effective in a way that did not stand close inspection. Her dress, made of some clinging, black material, set off her slender figure to its best advantage; but the neckband was untidy, the bottom of her skirt frayed; and, as she moved across the imitation Persian rugs to the fireplace, a pair of velvet slippers peeped out in slatternly shamefacedness. And her prettiness was of the same order. She had fair, curly hair, and bright blue eyes, and a doll's complexion; but the hair was disordered, the eyes were too bright, and the complexion had a hectic tinge.
When she reached her husband's side, she stretched out a white hand, and laid it thoughtfully and admiringly on his coat sleeve. She wore large diamond and ruby rings of doubtful quality, and of the type affected by actresses trying to anticipate success.
“A comic servant!” she repeated, with childish resentment. “It isn't fair, is it, David? They're nothing but a set of jealous cats, ready to claw out anybody's eyes if they happen to be prettier than their own; and they'd move heaven and earth to keep me out of a good billet. There's Helen Calhoun—it isn't her real name, I'll be bound—she loathes me because of my figure. I should, too, in her place—and she can't act any more than a kangaroo. Can she, David?”
“I don't know,” he said absently, still staring into the fire.
Kitty Hardy gave a little laugh of satisfied malice, which ended in a cough.
“Of course she can't! But she's hand in glove with Simmons; and he'll give her any part she likes to ask for. You should see how she ogles him. It makes me sick.”
“Don't!” he interrupted sharply. “Helen Calhoun isn't that sort of woman. I know her better.”
“You know her better?” She questioned his thin, haggard face with restless eyes. “Why, when did you know her?”
“Years ago,” he answered evasively, “before she went on the stage. A sort of boy-and-girl acquaintanceship. She has forgotten me by now; but I remember her very well. She was proud and independent; not the woman to lower herself to mean subterfuges.”
The white, bejeweled hand slipped from his arm.
“What enthusiasm! But all men are fools where women are concerned. A pretty face and a 'hands-off!' manner, and the trick is done. Or perhaps she has influence—back-stair influence. Most of them have. Only I have not.”
He looked round then, and his face softened.
“And that's my fault, isn't it? I thought myself a great gun when I married you, Kit, and meant to make things smooth. But apparently there was something wrong with the powder, for I haven't gone off very well, and you have had to suffer. Now, if you had married Carter”
“You're not to,” she interrupted, putting her fingers to his lips with a movement that was grotesquely theatrical. “You've been the dearest fellow in the world to me, and I wouldn't change you for an actor-manager! Positively I wouldn't! Do you think I have forgotten the old days? Don't you remember? You saw me first in 'The Dairy Maid'—a miserable part. The leading lady hated me because of my voice; but I made the best of it, didn't I? Didn't I?” she reiterated, as he remained silent; and David Hardy started at the rising petulancy in her voice.
“Yes—yes, of course.”
She smiled with gratification.