he'll be glad enough to speak to you when you meets
him again.'

And when they met again on the stairs, Rose nodded familiarly, and Hubert
said--

'I went to the Queen's the other night.'

'Did you like the piece?'

'I did not care about the piece; but when you get a wild, passionate part
to play, you'll make a hit. The sentimental parts they give you don't suit
you.'

A sudden light came into the languid face. 'Yes, I shall do something if I
can get a part like that.'

Hubert told her that he was writing a play containing just such a part.

Her eyes brightened again. 'Will you read me the play?' she said, fixing
her dark, dreamy eyes on him.

'I shall be very glad.... Do you think it won't bore you?' And his wistful
grey eyes were full of interrogation.

'No, I'm sure it won't.'

And a few days after she sent Annie with a note, reminding him of his
promise to read her what he had written. As she had only a bedroom, the
reading had to take place in his sitting-room. He read her the first and
second acts. She was all enthusiasm, and begged hard to be allowed to study
the part--just to see what she could do with it--just to let him see that
he was not mistaken in her. Her interest in his work captivated him, and he
couldn't refuse to lend her the manuscript.

II

Rose often came to see Hubert in his rooms. Her manner was disappointing,
and he thought he must be mistaken in his first judgment of her talents.
But one afternoon she gave him a recitation of the sleep-walking scene in
_Macbeth_. It was strange to see this little dark-complexioned, dark-eyed
girl, the merest handful of flesh and bone, divest herself at will of her
personality, and assume the tragic horror of Lady Macbeth, or the
passionate rapture of Juliet detaining her husband-lover on the balcony of
her chamber. Hubert watched in wonderment this girl, so weak and languid in
her own nature, awaking only to life when she assumed the personality of
another. There she lay, her wispy form stretched in his arm-chair, her
great dark eyes fixed, her mind at rest, sunk in some inscrutable dream.
Her thin hand lay on the arm of the chair: when she woke from her day-dream
she burst into irresponsible laughter, or questioned him with petulant
curiosity. He looked again: her dark curling hair hung on her swarthy neck,
and she was somewhat untidily dressed in blue linen.

'Were you ever in love?' she said suddenly. 'I don't suppose you could be;