e curtain had risen on the great
miracle-play of the soul; she, too, longed to dance in the masque of the
virtues and the graces. Every fresh phase of life had presented itself
to Audrey in spectacular magnificence; she could not help seeing things
so, it was the way her mind worked. The candles burning on the high
altar of St. Teresa's were only footlights in the wrong place; and the
veil that Mr. Flaxman Reed had lifted a little for her was the curtain
going up before another stage. Meanwhile while she had to consider his
possible criticism of her own acting. Sitting in the hard ascetic chair,
she looked round the room and tried to understand a little of its
owner's life. Every detail in it was a challenge to her intelligence.
She perplexed herself with questions. Why didn't Mr. Flaxman Reed have a
proper carpet on the floor? Why didn't he hang a curtain over that ugly
green baize door? It led into the room where he held his classes and
entertained his poorer parishioners; that room was also his dining-room.
How could he eat his meals after all those dreadful people had been in
it, poor things? Why only common deal book-cases, a varnished desk, and
that little painted table underneath the big crucifix? Why these
painfully uneasy chairs, and--yes--only one picture, and that of the
most emaciated of Madonnas? Could not her old favourite Botticelli have
supplied him with a lovelier type? Or there was Raphael. Sometimes, on a
Sunday evening after service, she had come in here from the rich, warm,
scented church, with the music of an august liturgy ringing in her ears,
and the chill place had struck like death to all her senses. And this
was the atmosphere in which his life was spent--this, and the gaunt
streets and the terrible slums of Lambeth.

She was not left long alone, for Mr. Flaxman Reed never kept any one
waiting if he could help it. As he seated himself opposite to her, the
set lines of his face relaxed and his manner softened. Her eyes followed
the outline of his face, which stood out white and sharp against the
dark window-curtain. She noted the crossed legs, the hands folded on his
knees, the weary pose of the whole wasted figure. It ought to have been
an appeal to her pity. The poor man was suffering from many kinds of
hunger, and from intense exhaustion. He had just dismissed a tiresome
parishioner, and, vexed with himself for having kept Audrey waiting, had
left his dinner in the next room untouched, and ca