Lady Bracebridge looked incredulous. She put up her lorgnette and scanned Clara, who had just floated across the stage followed by Trinculo and Stephano. 'She is born to it.... I know what the French theatre is like. They are so sensible, don't expect anything else of their actresses.' Verschoyle saw that it was useless to argue. Women will never relinquish their jealousy. He shifted uneasily in his seat: Lady Bracebridge was a great deal too clever for him and he saw himself being thrust against his will into marriage with her daughter, who had an affectation of cleverness and maddened him with remarks like,-- 'That Ariel costume would make the sweetest dinner-frock. If I have one made, will you take me to Murray's?' 'Certainly not,' said Verschoyle. Clara in her pure girlish voice had just sung 'Full fathom five thy father lies,' when Lady Bracebridge, in her most strident voice, which went ringing through the theatre, said,-- 'I hear Charles Mann has a real wife who is _raging_ with jealousy, simply raging. The most extraordinary story.' Clara stopped dead, stood looking helplessly round, pulled herself together, and went on with the part. Verschoyle deliberately got up and walked out and round to the stage door, where already he found Lady Butcher in earnest converse with Sir Henry,-- 'We can't have a scandal in the theatre, Henry. Everybody heard her....' 'The wicked old devil. Why didn't she keep her mouth shut?' 'She hates this girl you are all so crazy about.... Everybody heard her. You can't keep a thing like that quiet once it has been said publicly.' 'But she is wonderful, the most delicate Ariel. Mann isn't worrying us. I cleared him out.' 'Excuse me,' said Verschoyle, intervening. 'I can assure you there will be no trouble. I have seen to that. You have nothing to fear.' 'How sweet of you! Then I can tell everybody there is not a word of truth in it.' Verschoyle turned his back on them, and went in search of Clara, whom he found trembling with fury on the stairs leading from her dressing-room to the stage. 'How dare you let that woman insult me publicly?' she cried. 'How dare you? How dare you? You ought to have killed her.' Verschoyle stammered,-- 'One can't kill people in the stalls of a London theatre.' 'She ought not to be allowed to live. Publicly! In the middle of the play! ... Either she or I will leave the theatre.' 'I'll see what I can do,' he mumbled, 'only for God's sake don't make it worse than it is.... Your only answer can be to ignore her. She'll be crawling to you in a few months, for you are marvellous.' Clara saw that he was right. To match herself against the scandal-monger would be to step down to her level. To reassure her, Verschoyle told her how he had been to Bloomsbury to settle matters. 'Where?' she asked. He described the square and the house, and at once she had a foreboding of disaster. 'Did you see any one else?'