The author and the actress stuck so to the business in hand that she had very little time to speak to him again of Mrs. Alsager, of whom indeed her imagination appeared adequately to have disposed. Wayworth once remarked to her that Nona Vincent was supposed to be a good deal like his charming friend; but she gave a blank “Supposed by whom?” in consequence of which he never returned to the subject. He confided his nervousness as freely as usual to Mrs. Alsager, who easily understood that he had a peculiar complication of anxieties. His suspense varied in degree from hour to hour, but any relief there might have been in this was made up for by its being of several different kinds. One afternoon, as the first performance drew near, Mrs. Alsager said to him, in giving him his cup of tea and on his having mentioned that he had not closed his eyes the night before: “You must indeed be in a dreadful state. Anxiety for another is still worse than anxiety for one’s self.” “For another?” Wayworth repeated, looking at her over the rim of his cup. “My poor friend, you’re nervous about Nona Vincent, but you’re infinitely more nervous about Violet Grey.” “She _is_ Nona Vincent!” “No, she isn’t—not a bit!” said Mrs. Alsager, abruptly. “Do you really think so?” Wayworth cried, spilling his tea in his alarm. “What I think doesn’t signify—I mean what I think about that. What I meant to say was that great as is your suspense about your play, your suspense about your actress is greater still.” “I can only repeat that my actress _is_ my play.” Mrs. Alsager looked thoughtfully into the teapot. “Your actress is your—” “My what?” the young man asked, with a little tremor in his voice, as his hostess paused. “Your very dear friend. You’re in love with her—at present.” And with a sharp click Mrs. Alsager dropped the lid on the fragrant receptacle. “Not yet—not yet!” laughed her visitor. “You will be if she pulls you through.” “You declare that she _won’t_ pull me through.” Mrs. Alsager was silent a moment, after which she softly murmured: “I’ll pray for her.” “You’re the most generous of women!” Wayworth cried; then coloured as if the words had not been happy. They would have done indeed little honour to a man of tact.