‘The public makes no objection to Madame Desforets in Victor Hugo,’ she answered quickly, even sharply.  ’Her parts, so far as I know anything about them, are just these romantic parts, and she has made her enormous reputation out of them.’

Kendal hesitated.  ‘The French have a great tradition of them,’ he said.  ‘Racine, after all, was a preparation for Victor Hugo.’

‘No, no!’ she exclaimed, with sudden bitterness and a change of voice which startled him; ’it is not that.  It is that I am I, and Madame Desforets is Madame Desforets.  Oh, I see!  I see very well that your mind is against it.  And Mr. Wallace—­there were two or three things in his manner which have puzzled me.  He has never said yes to my proposal formally.  I understand perfectly what it means; you think that I shall do the play an injury by acting it; that it is too good for me!’

Kendal felt as if a thunderbolt had fallen; the sombre passion of her manner affected him indescribably.

‘Miss Bretherton!’ he cried.

‘Yes, yes!’ she said, almost fiercely, stopping in the path.  ’It’s that, I know.  I have felt it almost since your first word.  What power have I, if not tragic power?  If a part like Elvira does not suit me, what does suit me?  Of course, that is what you mean.  If I cannot act Elvira, I am good for nothing—­I am worse than good for nothing—­I am an impostor, a sham!’

She sat down on the raised edge of the bank, for she was trembling, and clasped her quivering hands on her knees.  Kendal was beside himself with distress.  How had he blundered so, and what had brought this about?  It was so unexpected, it was incredible.

‘Do—­do believe me!’ he exclaimed, bending over her.  ’I never meant anything the least disrespectful to you; I never dreamt of it.  You asked me to give you my true opinion, and my criticism applied much more to the play than to yourself.  Think nothing of it, if you yourself are persuaded.  You must know much better than I can what will suit you.  And as for Wallace—­Wallace will be proud to let you do what you will with his play.’

It seemed to him that he would have said anything in the world to soothe her.  It was so piteous, so intolerable to him to watch that quivering lip.

‘Ah, yes,’ she said, looking up, a dreary smile flitting over her face, ’I know you didn’t mean to wound me; but it was there, your feeling; I saw it at once.  I might have seen it, if I hadn’t been a fool, in Mr. Wallace’s manner.  I did see it.  It’s only what every one whose opinion is worth having is beginning to say.  My acting has been a nightmare to me lately.  I believe it has all been a great, great mistake.’