His business with the Jew and the Frenchman was soon settled fairly to their satisfaction. They went away, and Sir Henry began to collect his thoughts. He turned to his secretary and asked,-- 'We are rehearsing a play, eh? All these ladies and gentlemen are not here for nothing, eh? What play?' '_The Golden Hawk_.' 'Ah! Yes.... I have rehearsed so many plays.... I am thinking of my big Autumn success.... I can feel it in the air. I can always feel it. I felt that _Ivanhoe_ was no good, but I was over-persuaded. My instinct is always right. The business men and the authors are always wrong....' He flew into a sudden passion, and roared, 'Who the hell let down the fire-proof? I hate the thing. Take it away. How can a man rehearse to a fire-proof curtain? Take it away. Send it to the London County Council who inflicted it on me. I don't want it.' The stage-manager shouted to a man in the flies,-- 'Fire-proof up.' 'I never let it down,' came a voice. 'Who did then?' The stage-manager came over to where Clara was standing and pressed a button. The heavy fire-proof curtain slowly rose to reveal the author's widow sitting patiently with the dark empty theatre for background. Who's that lady?' asked Sir Henry. 'The author's widow,' replied the secretary. 'I was afraid it was his ghost,' said Sir Henry, with his mischievous chuckle. He went to her and chatted to her for a few moments about her late husband, who had been something of a figure in his time and had made a career in the traffic in French plays adapted for the British theatre. A scene or two was rehearsed, when an artist arrived with a model for a 'set' for _The School for Scandal_. The company gathered round and admired, while Sir Henry sat and played with it, trying various lighting effects with an electric torch. 'No,' he said, 'you can't get the effects with electric light that you used to be able to obtain with gas.... Give me gas. The theatre has never been the same. This electric light is cold. It is killing the theatre.' When the artist had gone, a journalist arrived for an interview, which was granted on condition that an article by Sir Henry on British Audiences was printed, and for the rest of the morning the secretary was kept busy taking down notes for the article. For Clara it was a very delightful morning. Her own scene was not reached, and she sat happily in a corner by the proscenium turning over the pages of her book, watching Sir Henry's antics, appreciating the skill with which, in spite of all his digressions, he kept things lively, and managed to get the work he wanted out of his company.... As the players dispersed, he stood in the middle of the stage and sighed heavily. Clara was for stealing away, when he strode across to her, seized her by the arm, and said in his deep rolling voice,-- 'Don't go, little girl. Don't go.' 'But I want to go,' replied she. 'And I'm not a little girl. I'm a married lady.'