’On this grand situation the curtain falls.  Judging by my first act, Mr. Westwick, tell me truly, and don’t be afraid of turning my head:—­ Am I not capable of writing a good play?’

Henry paused between the First and Second Acts; reflecting, not on the merits of the play, but on the strange resemblance which the incidents so far presented to the incidents that had attended the disastrous marriage of the first Lord Montbarry.

Was it possible that the Countess, in the present condition of her mind, supposed herself to be exercising her invention when she was only exercising her memory?

The question involved considerations too serious to be made the subject of a hasty decision.  Reserving his opinion, Henry turned the page, and devoted himself to the reading of the next act.  The manuscript proceeded as follows:—­

’The Second Act opens at Venice.  An interval of four months has elapsed since the date of the scene at the gambling table.  The action now takes place in the reception-room of one of the Venetian palaces.

’The Baron is discovered, alone, on the stage.  He reverts to the events which have happened since the close of the First Act.  The Countess has sacrificed herself; the mercenary marriage has taken place—­but not without obstacles, caused by difference of opinion on the question of marriage settlements.

’Private inquiries, instituted in England, have informed the Baron that my Lord’s income is derived chiefly from what is called entailed property.  In case of accidents, he is surely bound to do something for his bride?  Let him, for example, insure his life, for a sum proposed by the Baron, and let him so settle the money that his widow shall have it, if he dies first.

’My Lord hesitates.  The Baron wastes no time in useless discussion.  “Let us by all means” (he says) “consider the marriage as broken off.”  My Lord shifts his ground, and pleads for a smaller sum than the sum proposed.  The Baron briefly replies, “I never bargain.”  My lord is in love; the natural result follows—­he gives way.

’So far, the Baron has no cause to complain.  But my Lord’s turn comes, when the marriage has been celebrated, and when the honeymoon is over.  The Baron has joined the married pair at a palace which they have hired in Venice.  He is still bent on solving the problem of the “Philosopher’s Stone.”  His laboratory is set up in the vaults beneath the palace—­so that smells from chemical experiments may not incommode the Countess, in the higher regions of the house.  The one obstacle in the way of his grand discovery is, as usual, the want of money.  His position at the present time has become truly critical.  He owes debts of honour to gentlemen in his own rank of life, which must positively be paid; and he proposes, in his own friendly manner, to borrow the money of my Lord.  My Lord positively refuses, in the rudest terms.  The Baron applies to his sister to exercise her conjugal influence.  She can only answer that her noble husband (being no longer distractedly in love with her) now appears in his true character, as one of the meanest men living.  The sacrifice of the marriage has been made, and has already proved useless.