’Emily may have been fond of me—­I think she was; but it was no more than the hysterical caprice of a young girl.  Besides, people do not die for love; and I assure you it will be all right.  This is not a time for gloomy thoughts.’

’I’ll try not to think of her.  Well, what were we talking about?  I know:  about the actress who lived in 17 Fitzroy Street.  Tell me about her.’

’She was a real good girl.  If she hadn’t lent me that five shillings, I don’t know where I should be now.’

‘Were you very fond of her?’

’No; there never was anything of that sort between us.  We were merely friends.’

‘And what has become of this actress?’

‘You saw her to-night?’

‘Was she acting in the piece we saw to-night?’

‘It was she who played Lady Macbeth.’

‘You are joking.’

’No, I’m not.  I always knew she had genius, and they have found it out; but
I must say they have taken their time about it.’

‘How wonderful! she has succeeded!’

‘Yes, she has succeeded!’

‘And she is really the girl you intended to play Lady Hayward?’

‘Yes; and I hope she will play the part one of these days.’

’Of course, she is just the woman for it.  What a splendid success she has had!  All London is talking about her.’

’And I remember when Ford refused to cast her for the adventuress in Divorce.  If he had, there is no doubt she would have carried the piece through.  Life is but a bundle of chances; she has succeeded, whatever that may mean.’

‘But you will let her have the part of Lady Hayward?’

‘Yes, of course—­that is to say, if——­’

‘Why “if"?’

’My thoughts are with you, dear; literature seems to have passed out of sight.’

’But you must not sacrifice your talent in worship of me.  I shall not allow you.  For my sake, if not for hers, you must finish that play.  I want you to be famous.  I should be for ever miserable if my love proved a upas-tree.’

’A upas-tree!  It will be you who will help me; it will be your presence that will help me to write my play.  I was always vaguely conscious that you were a necessary element in my life; but I did not wake up to any knowledge of it until that day—­do you remember?—­when you came into my study to ask me what fish I’d like for dinner, and I begged of you to allow me to read to you that second act.  It is that second act that stops me.’

’I thought you had written the second act to your satisfaction.  You said that after the talk we had that afternoon you wrote for three hours without stopping, and that you had never done better work.’

’Yes, I wrote a great deal; but on reading it over I found that—­I don’t mean to say that none of it will stand; some still seems to me to be all right, but a great deal will require alteration.’

The conversation fell.  At the end of a long silence Hubert said—­