"Yes," said Maxwell, and he kept himself from falling on Grayson's neck
for joy.
"It might do," the actor assented with smiling eagerness and tolerant
superiority. "But whom could you get for such a Salome as that?"
"Well, there's only one woman for it," said Grayson.
"Yolande Havisham?"
The name made Maxwell's heart stop. He started forward to say that Mrs.
Harley could not have the part, when the manager said: "And we couldn't
get her. Sterne has engaged her to star in his combination. By the way,
he was looking for you to-day, Mr. Maxwell."
"I missed him," answered Maxwell, with immense relief. "But I should not
have let him have the piece while I had the slightest hope of your
taking it."
Neither the manager nor the actor was perhaps greatly moved by his
generous preference, though they both politely professed to be so. They
went on to canvass the qualities and reputations of all the other
actresses attainable, and always came back to Yolande Havisham, who was
unattainable; Sterne would never give her up in the world, even if she
were willing to give up the chance he was offering her. But she was the
one woman who could do Salome.
They decided that they must try to get Miss Pettrell, who had played the
part with Godolphin, and who had done it with refinement, if not with
any great force. When they had talked to this conclusion, Grayson
proposed getting something to eat, and the others refused, but they went
into the dining-room with him, where he showed Maxwell the tankards of
the members hanging on the walls over their tables--Booth's tankard,
Salvini's, Irving's, Jefferson's. He was surprised that Maxwell was not
a member of the Players, and said that he must be; it was the only club
for him, if he was going to write for the stage. He came out with them
and pointed out several artists whose fame Maxwell knew, and half a
dozen literary men, among them certain playwrights; they were all
smoking, and the place was blue with the fumes of their cigars. The
actors were coming in from the theatres for supper, and Maxwell found
himself with his friends in a group with a charming old comedian who was
telling brief, vivid little stories, and sketching character, with
illustrations from his delightful art. He was not swagger, like some of
the younger men who stood about with their bell-crowned hats on, before
they went into supper; and two or three other elderly actors who sat
round him and took their turn in the anecdote and mimicry looked, with
their smooth-shaven faces, like old-fashioned ministers. Godolphin, who
was like a youthful priest, began to tell stories, too; and he told very
good ones admirably, but without appearing to feel their quality, though
he laughed loudly at them with the rest.
When Maxwell refused every one's wish to have him eat or drink
something, and said good-night, Grayson had already gone in to his
supper, and Godolphin rose and smiled so fondly upon him that Maxwell
felt as if the actor had blessed him. But he was less sure than in the
beginning of the evening that the play was again in Godolphin's hands;
and he had to confirm himself from his wife's acceptance of the facts in
the belief that it was really so.