Society began
to smile secretly at her talented exercises. Only a select few, like Mrs.
Wolfstein, knew exactly what she was doing and why she was doing it, but
the many were entertained, as children are, without analysing the cause
of their amusement.
Two people, however, were indignant--Robin Pierce and Rupert Carey.
Robin Pierce, who had an instinct that was almost feminine in its
subtlety, raged internally, and Rupert Carey, who, naturally acute, was
always specially shrewd when his heart was in the game, openly showed his
distaste for Miss Schley, and went about predicting her complete failure
to capture the London public as an actress.
"She's done it as a woman," someone replied to him.
"Not the public, only the smart fools," returned Carey.
"The smart fools have more influence on the public every day."
Carey only snorted. He was in one of his evil moods that afternoon. He
left the club in which the conversation had taken place, and, casting
about for something to do, some momentary solace for his irritation and
/ennui/, he bethought him of Sir Donald Ulford's invitation and resolved
to make a call at the Albany. Sir Donald would be out, of course, but
anyhow he would chance it and shoot a card.
Sir Donald's servant said he was in. Carey was glad. Here was an hour
filled up.
With his usual hasty, decisive step he followed the man through a dark
and Oriental-looking vestibule into a library, where Sir Donald was
sitting at a bureau of teakwood, slowly writing upon a large, oblong
sheet of foolscap with a very pointed pen.
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