Grace’s name awoke keen interest in Clara.  She was startled to hear it, and did not venture to make the inquiry her mind at once suggested.  Mr. Scawthorne observed her for an instant, then proceeded to satisfy her curiosity.  Grace Rudd was on the stage; she had been acting in provincial theatres under the name of Miss Danvers, and was now waiting for a promised engagement at a minor London theatre.

‘Do you often go to the theatre ?’ he added carelessly.  ’I have a great many acquaintances connected with the stage in one way or another.  If you would like, I should be very glad to send you tickets now and then.  I always have more given me than I can well use.’

Clara thanked him rather coldly, and said that she was very seldom free in the evening.  Thereupon Mr. Scawthorne again smiled, raised his hat, and departed.

Possibly he had some consciousness of the effect of his words, but it needed a subtler insight, a finer imagination than his, to interpret the pale, beautiful, harassed face which studiously avoided looking towards him as he paused before stepping out on to the pavement.  The rest of the evening, the hours of night that followed, passed for Clara in bet tumult of heart and brain.  The news of Grace Rudd had flashed upon her as revelation of a clear possibility where hitherto she had seen only mocking phantoms of futile desire.  Grace was an actress; no matter by what course, to this she had attained.  This man, Scawthorne, spoke of the theatrical life as one to whom all its details were familiar; acquaintance with him of a sudden bridged over the chasm which had seemed impassable.  Would he come again to see her?  Had her involuntary reserve put an end to any interest he might have felt in her?  Of him personally she thought not at all; she could not have recalled his features; he was a mere abstraction, the representative of a wild hope which his conversation had inspired.

From that day the character of her suffering was altered; it became less womanly, it defied weakness and grew to a fever of fierce, unscrupulous rebellion.  Whenever she thought of Sidney Kirkwood, the injury he was inflicting upon her pride rankled into bitter resentment, unsoftened by the despairing thought of self-subdual which had at times visited her sick weariness.  She bore her degradations with the sullen indifference of one who is supported by the hope of a future revenge.  The disease inherent in her being, that deadly outcome of social tyranny which perverts the generous elements of youth into mere seeds of destruction, developed day by day, blighting her heart, corrupting her moral sense, even setting marks of evil upon the beauty of her countenance.  A passionate desire of self-assertion familiarised her with projects, with ideas, which formerly she had glanced at only to dismiss as ignoble.  In proportion as her bodily health failed, the worst possibilities of her character came into prominence.  Like a creature that is beset by unrelenting forces,