him, in giving him his cup of tea and on his having mentioned that he had not closed his eyes the night before:
"You must indeed be in a dreadful state. Anxiety for another is still worse than anxiety for one's self."
"For another?" Wayworth repeated, looking at her over the rim of his cup.
"My poor friend, you're nervous about Nona Vincent, but you're infinitely more nervous about Violet Grey."
"She is Nona Vincent!"
"No, she isn't—not a bit!" said Mrs. Alsager, abruptly.
"Do you really think so?" Wayworth cried, spilling his tea in his alarm.
"What I think doesn't signify—I mean what I think about that. What I meant to say was that great as is your suspense about your play, your suspense about your actress is greater still."
"I can only repeat that my actress is my play."
Mrs. Alsager looked thoughtfully into the teapot.
"Your actress is your—"
"My what?" the young man asked, with a little tremor in his voice, as his hostess paused.
"Your very dear friend. You're in love with her—at present." And with a sharp click Mrs. Alsager dropped the lid on the fragrant receptacle.
"Not yet—not yet!" laughed her visitor.
"You will be if she pulls you through."
"You declare that she won't pull me through."
