suggested. Mr. Scawthorne observed her for an instant, then
proceeded to satisfy her curiosity. Grace Rudd was on the stage; she
had been acting in provincial theatres under the name of Miss
Danvers, and was now waiting for a promised engagement at a minor
London theatre.

'Do you often go to the theatre ?' he added carelessly. 'I have a
great many acquaintances connected with the stage in one way or
another. If you would like, I should be very glad to send you
tickets now and then. I always have more given me than I can well
use.'

Clara thanked him rather coldly, and said that she was very seldom
free in the evening. Thereupon Mr. Scawthorne again smiled, raised
his hat, and departed.

Possibly he had some consciousness of the effect of his words, but
it needed a subtler insight, a finer imagination than his, to
interpret the pale, beautiful, harassed face which studiously
avoided looking towards him as he paused before stepping out on to
the pavement. The rest of the evening, the hours of night that
followed, passed for Clara in bet tumult of heart and brain. The
news of Grace Rudd had flashed upon her as revelation of a clear
possibility where hitherto she had seen only mocking phantoms of
futile desire. Grace was an actress; no matter by what course, to
this she had attained. This man, Scawthorne, spoke of the theatrical
life as one to whom all its details were familiar; acquaintance with
him of a sudden bridged over the chasm which had seemed impassable.
Would he come again to see her? Had her involuntary reserve put an
end to any interest he might have felt in her? Of him personally she