He came away before the others, restless with the desire to go to Notting Hill even that night, late as it was, haunted with the sense that Violet Grey had measured her fall. When he got into the street, however, he allowed second thoughts to counsel another course; the effect of knocking her up at two o’clock in the morning would hardly be to soothe her. He looked at six newspapers the next day and found in them never a good word for her. They were well enough about the piece, but they were unanimous as to the disappointment caused by the young actress whose former efforts had excited such hopes and on whom, on this occasion, such pressing responsibilities rested. They asked in chorus what was the matter with her, and they declared in chorus that the play, which was not without promise, was handicapped (they all used the same word) by the odd want of correspondence between the heroine and her interpreter. Wayworth drove early to Notting Hill, but he didn’t take the newspapers with him; Violet Grey could be trusted to have sent out for them by the peep of dawn and to have fed her anguish full. She declined to see him—she only sent down word by her aunt that she was extremely unwell and should be unable to act that night unless she were suffered to spend the day unmolested and in bed. Wayworth sat for an hour with the old lady, who understood everything and to whom he could speak frankly. She gave him a touching picture of her niece’s condition, which was all the more vivid for the simple words in which it was expressed: “She feels she isn’t right, you know—she feels she isn’t right!” “Tell her it doesn’t matter—it doesn’t matter a straw!” said Wayworth. “And she’s so proud—you know how proud she is!” the old lady went on. “Tell her I’m more than satisfied, that I accept her gratefully as she is.” “She says she injures your play, that she ruins it,” said his interlocutress. “She’ll improve, immensely—she’ll grow into the part,” the young man continued. “She’d improve if she knew how—but she says she doesn’t. She has given all she has got, and she doesn’t know what’s wanted.” “What’s wanted is simply that she should go straight on and trust me.” “How can she trust you when she feels she’s losing you?” “Losing me?” Wayworth cried. “You’ll never forgive her if your play is taken off!” “It will run six months,” said the author of the piece. The old lady laid her hand on his arm. “What will you do for her if it does?” He looked at Violet Grey’s aunt a moment. “Do you say your niece is very proud?” “Too proud for her dreadful profession.” “Then she wouldn’t wish you to ask me that,” Wayworth answered, getting up.