As he pondered the problem, he saw that Charles and Clara could be dropped, and probably would be as soon as it was convenient. The real controller of the Imperium was Lady Bracebridge, whose skill in intrigue was said to be worth ten thousand a year to Sir Julius Fleischmann. She played upon Lady Butcher, Lady Butcher played upon Sir Henry, who, with Mr Gillies crying 'Give, give,' was between the upper and the nether millstone, and could only put up a sham fight.... Verschoyle understood, too late, that _The Tempest_ was to be produced not to present Clara and Charles to the British public, but to capture himself. Like a fool, in his eagerness to help Clara, he had let himself be captured, and now he thought he owed her amends.... He did not know how difficult the situation had become. The danger point, as he saw the problem, was her position with regard to Charles, who, fortunately, respected her wishes and made no attempt to force her hand. All the same there the awkward fact was and at any moment might trip her up. Verschoyle did not mind a scandal, and he did not care a hang whether Charles went to prison or not. It might give him the instruction in the elementary facts of existence which he needed to make him learn to begin at the beginning instead of the middle or the end.... What Verschoyle dreaded was a sudden shock which might blast the delicate bud of Clara's youth, which to him was far more precious than any other quality, and the only thing which in all his life had moved him out of his timid dilettantism. To him it was a more valuable thing than the whole of London, and compared with its vivid reality the Imperium, with its firm hold on the affections of the public, and its generation of advertising behind it, was a blown bubble. He had tea with her on the day after her supper with Sir Henry, and found her disastrously altered, hurt, and puzzled. 'What is the matter?' he asked. 'Rehearsals not going well?' 'Oh, yes. They are going very well.... But I am worried about Charles. He has been borrowing money again.' 'Will you be happy again if I promise to look after Charles?' 'He ought not to expect to be looked after. He is very famous now, and should be able to make money.' 'Surely, like everything else, it is a matter of practice. You don't expect him to beat Sir Henry at his own game.' 'No-o,' she said. 'But I think I did expect Charles's game to beat Sir Henry's.' 'Surely it has done so.' 'No.' They were in her rooms, which were now most charmingly furnished; bright, gay, and delicate in colouring, tranquil and cosy with books. 'Has anything happened?' She told him.