UT they 're often managed by their husbands, are n't they?"
"Yes. That's why we want to get her away from him before he is her husband."
Renton turned from the speakers with a little smile of superiority, which proclaimed his opinion that they need not trouble themselves: Miss Bayard would marry or not, as she thought fit. He was still young enough to believe, dramatist though he might be, that one quality signifies another—that because a beautiful woman is the most intellectual actress of her time she is therefore likely to know what she wants. Renton was a little bit in love with Evelyn Bayard,—it was every man's business to be a little bit in love with her,—but he himself would no more have thought of marrying her than of marrying the moon. He would have preferred to write the most wonderful play in the world, and pass the rest of his life in seeing her play it.
There were a great many people on the veranda of the hotel, and Renton sat
down on the balustrade, whence he could command a view of Aliss Bayard as she came out to the motor, now throbbing on the road below. He did not notice that the man sitting just at his back was James Hinney, that small, red-headed, surly manager of Miss Bayard whom she was reported to be engaged to marry; when she came straight in his direction, Renton had a moment's dizzying dream that it was he she sought. He slid quickly to his feet, and stood waiting in the joyous panic of her splendid and gentle presence.
Evelyn Bayard, absent-minded as she always seemed, gave him a smile of gratitude, a small, grave inclination of her dark head, which mutely apologized to him for its being her manager with whom she wished to speak. Two ladies and a gentleman from among the hotel guests wafted her before them, cooingly, and a curly-headed girl of the "rough soubrette" type, with Miss Bayard's wrap over her arm, followed stolidly, frowning at the manager.
"Mr. Hinney," said Miss Bayard; the meager and formal phrase fell with a certain quaintness from her lips. As she introduced her followers, she spoke with an exquisite precision; it struck Renton, nevertheless, that she was nervous. The soubrette shifted her weight and stood impassive. Hinney acknowledged each introduction with a nod; not rising, continuing to grind a fragment of toothpick round and round in his teeth. "They all very much wish that I should recite at the concert to-morrow night."
"Is that so?" said Hinney.
The followers broke out into a flutter of explanations in which the phrase "for charity" was prominent. Miss Bayard, with her graceful awkwardness, habitually let her long arms hang straight down; Renton saw that at this moment she was pressing her hands tight together. The curly-headed soubrette burst into a short, rude laugh and contrived to look at Hinney while she was still looking over his head.
A lady entreated:
"The least little thing—like Portia's mercy speech, you know, or—or the sleep-walking scene. Nothing elaborate—"
The others repeated, "Nothing elaborate—no, no!" and "For charity," and Miss Bayard, with her hands still clasping each other, kept her dark eyes in a bright quiet upon Hinney's face.
"Have n't you enough to do up here this summer?" He rose, as if to put an end to the question, and his eye impatiently sought the quivering motor. He put on his cap.
But these gentle pleaders were not so easily silenced.
"Just this once—" "Make the greatest difference to us—" "Miss Bayard's so obliging—"
"Yes; well, she's too obliging. She will oblige me a great deal better by keeping to herself." Seeing his path to the steps cut off, Hinney, intending a flank movement, had backed a trifle down the veranda, shielding himself with the sour smile, which now broke out into a snarl: "If she's anxious to act, I 'll hire your new Lyric Hall, and anybody who's just as anxious to see her can pay his two dollars. What good do your charities do her?"
In the shocked pause Miss Bayard, who had stood perfectly still, with her folded hands and her faint, fixed, and passive smile, now said clearly, "Mr. Hinney,"—Renton had supposed her all along to be merely reserving her thunderbolt; there had been no instant of this strange business when he had not expected to see the manager shriveled to the earth by a word, by a glance, of his imperial mistress. But what she said was only,—"it would be a great pleasure to me to do the sleep-walking scene."