the civility with which he behaved to all who had business relations with him, but every now and then the veneer gave an awkward crack, and, as in his debate with Miss Walcott, the man himself was discovered to be of coarse grain. His aspect was singular when, on Clara’s entrance into the private room, he laid down his cigarette and scrutinised her. There was a fiery hue on his visage, and the scowl of his black eyebrows had a peculiar ugliness. “Miss Vale,” he began, after hesitation, “do you consider that you played your part this evening with the conscientiousness that may fairly be expected of you?”
"Perhaps not,” replied the girl, averting her eyes, and resting her hand on the table.
“And may I ask why not?"
“I didn’t feel in the humour. The house saw no difference.”
“Indeed? The house saw no difference? Do you mean to imply that you always play badly?"
“I mean that the part isn’t worth any attention,—even if they were able to judge.”
