“I think I ought to tell you,” she went on, “that I was rather unfair to you that day in talking about my cousin—­in the taxi.  You were quite right to refuse to go into partnership with her.  She thinks so too.  We’ve talked it over, and we’re quite agreed.  Of course it did seem hard—­at the time, and her bad luck in America seemed to make it worse.  But you were quite right.  You can work much better alone.  You must have felt that instinctively—­far quicker than we felt it.”

“Well,” he murmured, confused, “I don’t know—­”

Could this be she who had too openly smiled at his skirmish with an artichoke?

“Oh, Mr. Machin!” she burst out.  “You’ve got an unprecedented opportunity, and thank Heaven you’re the man to use it!  We’re all expecting so much from you, and we know we shan’t be disappointed.”

“D’ye mean the theatre?” he asked, alarmed as it were amid rising waters.

“The theatre,” said she, gravely.  “You’re the one man that can save London.  No one in London can do it!... You have the happiness of knowing what your mission is, and of knowing, too, that you are equal to it.  What good fortune!  I wish I could say as much for myself.  I want to do something!  I try!  But what can I do?  Nothing—­really!  You’ve no idea of the awful loneliness that comes from a feeling of inability.”

“Loneliness,” he repeated.  “But surely—­” he stopped.

“Loneliness,” she insisted.  Her little chin was now in her little hand, and her dim face upturned.

And suddenly a sensation of absolute and marvellous terror seized Edward Henry.  He was more afraid than he had ever been—­and yet once or twice in his life he had felt fear.  His sense of true perspective—­one of his most precious qualities—­returned.  He thought:  “I’ve got to get out of this.”  Well, the door was not locked.  It was only necessary to turn the handle, and security lay on the other side of the door!  He had but to rise and walk.  And he could not.  He might just as well have been manacled in a prison-cell.  He was under an enchantment.

“A man,” murmured Elsie, “a man can never realize the loneliness—­” She ceased.

He stirred uneasily.

“About this play,” he found himself saying.  And yet why should he mention the play in his fright?  He pretended to himself not to know why.  But he knew why.  His instinct had seen in the topic of the play the sole avenue of salvation.

“A wonderful thing, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” he said.  And then—­most astonishingly to himself—­added:  “I’ve decided to do it.”

“We knew you would,” she said calmly.  “At any rate I did....  You’ll open with it, of course.”

“Yes,” he answered desperately.  And proceeded, with the most extraordinary bravery, “If you’ll act in it.”

Immediately on hearing these last words issue from his mouth he knew that a fool had uttered them, and that the bravery was mere rashness.  For Elsie’s responding gesture reinspired him afresh with the exquisite terror which he had already begun to conjure away.