“I am afraid I am scarcely equal to renewing the conversation at the point where we broke off,” said Aunt Charlotte, who now felt her wits getting more under control.  “Indeed, Mr Ogilvie, I have nothing to reproach you with.  I had no right to enquire what your profession was, and still less have I a right to criticise it.  But of course you will understand that the subject we were speaking of must never be mentioned again.”

The lover sighed.  It was not a bad situation, and his long experience enabled him to make it quite effective.  Silently he took his gloves out of his hat, paused, and then dropped them in again, with the very faintest and most dramatic gesture of despair.  The action was trifling in the extreme, but it was performed by a play-actor who knew his business, and Aunt Charlotte felt as though cold water were running down her back.  Then he turned, quite beautifully, to Austin.

“And you, young gentleman.  And what have you to say?” he asked in a carefully choking voice.

“That I like you even better in your present part than as Sardanapalus,” replied Austin, cordially.

“The tribute is two-edged,” observed the actor with a shrug.  And certainly he had acted well, and dressed the character to perfection.  But the takings of the performance, alas, had not paid expenses.  He really had a sentiment for the lady he had been wooing, and the prospect of a solid additional income—­for it was clear she was in very easy circumstances—­had smiled upon him not unpleasantly.  And why should she not have married him?  He was her equal in birth, they had been possible lovers in their youth, he had made a name for himself meanwhile, and, after all, there was no stain upon his honour.  But she had now definitely refused.  The little comedy had been played out.  There was nothing for him to do but to make a graceful exit, and this he did in a way that brought tears to the lady’s eyes.  “Oh, need you go?” she urged with fatuous politeness.  Austin was more friendly still; he reminded Mr Ogilvie that having returned so late he had had no opportunity of enjoying a renewal of their acquaintance, and begged him to remain a little longer for a chat and a cigarette.  But Mr Ogilvie was too much of an artist to permit an anti-climax.  The catastrophe had come off, and the curtain must be run down quick.  So he wrenched himself away with what dignity he might, and, relapsing into his natural or Buskin phase as soon as he got outside, comforted himself with a glass of stiff whiskey and water at the refreshment bar of the railway station before getting into the train for London.

Chapter the Twelfth