She thought perhaps some mystery of physical lack of sympathy was in part responsible; then there was the fact that she could not trust him.With many women, trust is not necessary to love; on the contrary, distrust inflames love.It happened not to be so with Susan Lenox."I do not love him.I can never love him again.And when he uses his power over me, Ishall begin to dislike him." The lost illusion! The dead love! If she could call it back to life! But no--there it lay, coffined, the gray of death upon its features.Her heart ached.
After the play Fitzalan took the authors and the leading lady, Constance Francklyn, and Miss Lenox to supper in a private room at Rector's.This was Miss Francklyn's first trial in a leading part.She had small ability as an actress, having never risen beyond the primer stage of mere posing and declamation in which so many players are halted by their vanity--the universal human vanity that is content with small triumphs, or with purely imaginary triumphs.But she had a notable figure of the lank, serpentine kind and a bad, sensual face that harmonized with it.Especially in artificial light she had an uncanny allure of the elemental, the wild animal in the jungle.With every disposition and effort to use her physical charms to further herself she would not have been still struggling at twenty-eight, had she had so much as a thimbleful of intelligence.
"Several times," said Sperry to Susan as they crossed Long Acre together on the way to Rector's, "yes, at least half a dozen times to my knowledge, Constance had had success right in her hands.And every time she has gone crazy about some cheap actor or sport and has thrown it away.""But she'll get on now," said Susan.
"Perhaps," was Sperry's doubting reply."Of course, she's got no brains.But it doesn't take brains to act--that is, to act well enough for cheap machine-made plays like this.And nowadays playwrights have learned that it's useless to try to get actors who can act.They try to write parts that are actor-proof.""You don't like your play?" said Susan.
"Like it? I love it.Isn't it going to bring me in a pot of money? But as a play"--Sperry laughed."I know Spenser thinks it's great, but--there's only one of us who can write plays, and that's Brent.It takes a clever man to write a clever play.But it takes a genius to write a clever play that'll draw the damn fools who buy theater seats.And Robert Brent now and then does the trick.How are you getting on with your ambition for a career?"Susan glanced nervously at him.The question, coming upon the heels of talk about Brent, filled her with alarm lest Rod had broken his promise and had betrayed her confidence.But Sperry's expression showed that she was probably mistaken.
"My ambition?" said she."Oh--I've given it up.""The thought of work was too much for you--eh?"Susan shrugged her shoulders.
A sardonic grin flitted over Sperry's Punch-like face."The more I see of women, the less I think of 'em," said he."But I suppose the men'd be lazy and worthless too, if nature had given 'em anything that'd sell or rent....Somehow I'm disappointed in _you_, though."That ended the conversation until they were sitting down at the table.Then Sperry said:
"Are you offended by my frankness a while ago?""No," replied Susan."The contrary.Some day your saying that may help me.""It's quite true, there's something about you--a look--a manner--it makes one feel you could do things if you tried.""I'm afraid that `something' is a fraud," said she.No doubt it was that something that had misled Brent--that had always deceived her about herself.No, she must not think herself a self-deceived dreamer.Even if it was so, still she must not think it.She must say to herself over and over again "Brent or no Brent, I shall get on--I shall get on" until she had silenced the last disheartening doubt.
Miss Francklyn, with Fitzalan on her left and Spenser on her right, was seated opposite Susan.About the time the third bottle was being emptied the attempts of Spenser and Constance to conceal from her their doings became absurd.Long before the supper was over there had been thrust at her all manner of proofs that Spenser was again untrue, that he was whirling madly in one of those cyclonic infatuations which soon wore him out and left him to return contritely to her.Sperry admired Susan's manners as displayed in her unruffled serenity--an admiration which she did not in the least deserve.She was in fact as deeply interested as she seemed in his discussion of plays and acting, illustrated by Brent's latest production.By the time the party broke up, Susan had in spite of herself collected a formidable array of incriminating evidence, including the stealing of one of Constance's jeweled show garters by Spenser under cover of the tablecloth and a swift kiss in the hall when Constance went out for a moment and Spenser presently suspended his drunken praises of himself as a dramatist, and appointed himself a committee to see what had become of her.
At the door of the restaurant, Spenser said:
"Susan, you and Miss Francklyn take a taxicab.She'll drop you at our place on her way home.Fitz and Sperry and I want one more drink.""Not for me," said Sperry savagely, with a scowl at Constance.
But Fitzalan, whose arm Susan had seen Rod press, remained silent.
"Come on, my dear," cried Miss Francklyn, smiling sweet insolent treachery into Susan's face.
Susan smiled sweetly back at her.As she was leaving the taxicab in Forty-fifth Street, she said:
"Send Rod home by noon, won't you? And don't tell him I know."Miss Francklyn, who had been drinking greedily, began to cry.
Susan laughed."Don't be a silly," she urged."If I'm not upset, why should you be? And how could I blame you two for getting crazy about each other? I wouldn't spoil it for worlds.I want to help it on.""Don't you love him--really?" cried Constance, face and voice full of the most thrilling theatricalism.
