Wednesday afternoon, on the way to Brent's house, she glanced up at the clock in the corner tower of the Grand Central Station.It lacked five minutes of three.She walked slowly, timed herself so accurately that, as the butler opened the door, a cathedral chime hidden somewhere in the upper interior boomed the hour musically.The man took her direct to the elevator, and when it stopped at the top floor, Brent himself opened the door, as before.He was dismissing a short fat man whom Susan placed as a manager, and a tall, slim, and most fashionably dressed woman with a beautiful insincere face--anyone would have at once declared her an actress, probably a star.The woman gave Susan a searching, feminine look which changed swiftly to superciliousness.Both the man and the woman were loath to go, evidently had not finished what they had come to say.But Brent, in his abrupt but courteous way, said:
"Tomorrow at four, then.As you see, my next appointment has begun." And he had them in the elevator with the door closed.
He turned upon Susan the gaze that seemed to take in everything."You are in better spirits, I see," said he.
"I'm sorry to have interrupted," said she."I could have waited.""But __I__ couldn't," replied he."Some day you'll discover that your time is valuable, and that to waste it is far sillier than if you were to walk along throwing your money into the gutter.Time ought to be used like money--spent generously but intelligently." He talked rapidly on, with his manner as full of unexpressed and inexpressible intensity as the voice of the violin, with his frank egotism that had no suggestion of vanity or conceit."Because I systematize my time, I'm never in a hurry, never at a loss for time to give to whatever I wish.I didn't refuse to keep you waiting for your sake but for my own.Now the next hour belongs to you and me--and we'll forget about time--as, if we were dining in a restaurant, we'd not think of the bill till it was presented.What did you do with the play?"Susan could only look at him helplessly.
He laughed, handed her a cigarette, rose to light a match for her."Settle yourself comfortably," said he, "and say what's in your head."With hands deep in the trousers of his house suit, he paced up and down the long room, the cigarette loose between his lips.
Whenever she saw his front face she was reassured; but whenever she saw his profile, her nerves trembled--for in the profile there was an expression of almost ferocious resolution, of tragic sadness, of the sternness that spares not.The full face was kind, if keen; was sympathetic--was the man as nature had made him.The profile was the great man--the man his career had made.And Susan knew that the profile was master.
"Which part did you like _Santuzza_ or _Lola_?""_Lola_," replied she.
He paused, looked at her quickly.Why?"
"Oh, I don't sympathize with the woman--or the man--who's deserted.I pity, but I can't help seeing it's her or his own fault._Lola_ explains why.Wouldn't you rather laugh than cry? _Santuzza_ may have been attractive in the moments of passion, but how she must have bored _Turiddu_ the rest of the time! She was so intense, so serious--so vain and selfish.""Vain and selfish? That's interesting." He walked up and down several times, then turned on her abruptly."Well--go on,"he said."I'm waiting to hear why she was vain and selfish.""Isn't it vain for a woman to think a man ought to be crazy about her all the time because he once has been? Isn't it selfish for her to want him to be true to her because it gives _her_ pleasure, even though she knows it doesn't give _him_ pleasure?""Men and women are all vain and selfish in love," said he.
"But the women are meaner than the men," replied she, "because they're more ignorant and narrow-minded."He was regarding her with an expression that made her uneasy.
"But that isn't in the play--none of it," said he.
"Well, it ought to be," replied she."_Santuzza_ is the old-fashioned conventional heroine.I used to like them--until I had lived a little, myself.She isn't true to life.But in _Lola_----""Yes--what about _Lola_?" he demanded.
"Oh, she wasn't a heroine, either.She was just human--taking happiness when it offered.And her gayety--and her capriciousness.A man will always break away from a solemn, intense woman to get that sort of sunshine.""Yes--yes--go on," said Brent.
"And her sour, serious, solemn husband explains why wives are untrue to their husbands.At least, it seems so to me."He was walking up and down again.Every trace of indolence, of relaxation, was gone from his gait and from his features.
His mind was evidently working like an engine at full speed.
Suddenly he halted."You've given me a big idea," said he.
"I'll throw away the play I was working on.I'll do your play."Susan laughed--pleased, yet a little afraid he was kinder than she deserved."What I said was only common sense--what my experience has taught me.""That's all that genius is, my dear," replied he."As soon as we're born, our eyes are operated on so that we shall never see anything as it is.The geniuses are those who either escape the operation or are reendowed with true sight by experience." He nodded approvingly at her."You're going to be a person--or, rather, you're going to show you're a person.
But that comes later.You thought of _Lola_ as your part?""I tried to.But I don't know anything about acting except what I've seen and the talk I've heard.""As I said the other day, that means you've little to learn.
Now--as to _Lola's_ entrance."
