"A foolish actor: played a sketch of mine in vaudeville for a couple of years and, because that got over, thinks this piece must." "But it will, won't it?" "I hope so; but I'm glad it's not my money." "And where will you open?" "Heaven and the Shuberts only know. Rideout books through the Shuberts, you understand." "I'm afraid I don't." "The Shuberts are the Independents--the opposition to the Syndicate headed by Klaw and Erlanger. You see, the theatres of this country are practically all controlled by one or the other combination. If you want booking for your show, you've got to take sides--serve God or Mammon." "And which is which?" "The difference is imperceptible to the innocent bystander." "But you'll let us know--?" "If we open within motoring distance of Town--rather!" Tankerville, edging his plump little body forward on his chair, manoeuvred his round and sun-scorched face in vain attempts to catch his wife's eye past the intervening candelabrum. Helena, however, divined his desire. "Coffee in the card-room, George?" "Please!" Tankerville bleated plaintively. There was a concerted movement from the table. Venetia lingered with Matthias. "It's auction, tonight. Shall you play?" "'Fraid I'll have to. So will you. Helena--you know--" "Of course. We must. Only"--she sighed, petulant--"I'd rather not. I'd rather talk to you." "Heroic measures!" he laughed. "But--consolation note!--we're two over two full tables. Therefore we'll have to cut in and out. That'll give us some time to ourselves." "Yes," she agreed: "but it'll be just our luck to be disengaged at different times." He paused in amused incredulity. "Do you really want to talk to me as badly as all that?" She nodded, curtaining her eyes. "Very much," she said softly. They entered the card-room and were summoned to different tables. Matthias cut and edged Mrs. Cardrow out by a single pip. How Venetia fared he did not learn, more than that she was to play while Marbridge was to stay out the first rubber. He played even less intelligently than usual, with a mind distracted. Venetia's new attitude, pleasant as had been all their association, was a development of disconcerting suddenness; or else he had been witless and blind beyond relief. And yet--how could he say? He was so frequently misled by faculties befogged with dreaming, that overlooked when they did not flatly deny the obvious: it was possible that Helena had been more wise than he. A sense of strain handicapped his judgment; whether atmospheric or bred of his own emotion, he could not tell. And yet, plumbing the deeps of his humour, he discovered nothing there more exacting than bewilderment, more exciting than hope. On the other hand, he could fix upon nothing in the bearing of these amiable people to lead him to believe that the feeling of tensity to which he was susceptible was not the creation of his own fancy. They played with a certain abandon of enjoyment, absorbed in their diversion....