'I'm only astonished that more men in my position don't go in for the
theatre. There are so many of us and we can't think of anything better
than racing and polo and big game.'
As they were all so pleased with themselves, Clara swallowed her
chagrin, and more happily accepted their homage when Sir Henry toasted
her as the presiding Muse of the Imperium.
She was suffering from the reaction from a fulfilled ambition. She had
overcome Charles's reluctance to submit to the machinery of the
theatre, and was herself now inspired with something of a horror of its
immense power, which could absorb originality and force, and reduce
individuals to helpless puppets. But she would not admit to herself
that she might have been wrong, and that it were possibly better to
have left Charles to fight his own way through.
No, no. Left to himself he would always be tripped up by his desire
for birds and fishes and other such superfluities. Left to meet in
their love of art he and Sir Henry would soon have been at loggerheads.
In their love of food, they could discover each other's charm and
forget their jealousy and suspicion of each other's aims.