Wayworth laughed still louder. “You made her a little yourself. I’ve thought of her as looking like you.” “She ought to look much better,” said Mrs. Alsager. “No, certainly, I shouldn’t do what _she_ does.” “Not even in the same circumstances?” “I should never find myself in such circumstances. They’re exactly your play, and have nothing in common with such a life as mine. However,” Mrs. Alsager went on, “her behaviour was natural for _her_, and not only natural, but, it seems to me, thoroughly beautiful and noble. I can’t sufficiently admire the talent and tact with which you make one accept it, and I tell you frankly that it’s evident to me there must be a brilliant future before a young man who, at the start, has been capable of such a stroke as that. Thank heaven I can admire Nona Vincent as intensely as I feel that I don’t resemble her!” “Don’t exaggerate that,” said Allan Wayworth. “My admiration?” “Your dissimilarity. She has your face, your air, your voice, your motion; she has many elements of your being.” “Then she’ll damn your play!” Mrs. Alsager replied. They joked a little over this, though it was not in the tone of pleasantry that Wayworth’s hostess soon remarked: “You’ve got your remedy, however: have her done by the right woman.” “Oh, have her ‘done’—have her ‘done’!” the young man gently wailed. “I see what you mean, my poor friend. What a pity, when it’s such a magnificent part—such a chance for a clever serious girl! Nona Vincent is practically your play—it will be open to her to carry it far or to drop it at the first corner.”