“Roger dear,” she said: “you must meet everybody. You don’t mind me calling you dear, do you dear? I’m old enough to be your mother, or an aunt, anyhow. And in this game you get into the way of calling people dear. You see?”

“If you’re more than five years older than I am,” said Roger, “my eyes are deceiving me, and they don’t. Not about that sort of thing. And if you pretend to be older than you are so that you can boss me, I have to teach you a lesson, Nellie dear.”

“Five years!” Nellie gave a playful shriek in which coquetry, indignation and regret for lost youth were prettily blended. “How old do you think I am?”

“About twenty-eight—a year or two either way.”

“My dear boy! Don’t they test your eyesight in the Army any more?”

“Yes. I have perfect vision. I also have a wonderful instinct about such things.”

“Well, your instinct is wrong this time. If you want to know, Val here and I are just the same age, aren’t we Val?”

Nellie meant this to be a surprise to Roger, and so it was. He had taken Valentine to be many years Nellie’s junior. But he gallantly told them that he stuck to his original estimate. Valentine did not care; she thought nothing of Roger’s sort of charm. But Nellie’s heart was like a singing bird whose nest was in a water’d shoot. She seized upon the next couple to mount the stair. It was Professor Vambrace and his daughter.

“Pearl, dear, you haven’t met Roger Tasset, have you? He’s going to play Ferdinand to your Miranda.”

“Really, Nell, you must be discreet,” said Professor Vambrace; “no parts have been officially allotted as yet. Good evening Tasset.”

Pearl Vambrace murmured inaudibly, extended her hand to Roger, and then took it back again when he seemed about to shake it. This caused her to blush. Roger eyed her professionally, reflecting that this was a little more the sort of thing he had been expecting.

“I am very happy to meet you,” he said, giving the words just a little more significance than the situation required. But Vambrace took his daughter by the arm and moved her on toward the semicircle of chairs; he seemed to choose one with special care, and place her in it, before he went to the central table, and began to unload papers and books from a large, bulgy brief-case which he carried.

“Good evening,” said a voice at Roger’s shoulder, and he turned to find the treasurer of the club smiling at him, his hand extended.

“Oh, good evening, Mr McNabb,” said Roger.

“Mackilwraith,” said Hector. “So you’ve come to try your luck, have you. So have I.”

Roger had not thought of his presence at the audition in quite this way. It had never occurred to him that he would not be cast as the leading juvenile of any play which he chose to act in; he was not vain, but it was unlikely that an amateur drama group would find anyone better qualified than himself for a part which demanded looks, charm and a handy way with women. But these are not thoughts which one confides to a stranger. Particularly not to a stranger who looked like this one.

Years as a successful teacher had given Hector an air of quiet authority. He was almost as tall as Roger, though he was much stouter; his hair was thick, wavy and very black; black and thick were the eyebrows above his grey eyes. His face was full—almost fat—and ruddy. He was smiling, and he had excellent teeth. His voice was low and pleasant, and three generations in Canada, and a Lowland mother, had not quite flattened all the Highland lilt out of it. But it was a quality of sincerity about the man which intimidated Roger; it was not the professional sincerity of the professional good fellow; it was the integrity of a man who has every aspect of life which is important to him under his perfect control. Roger thought it wise to be a little diffident in his reply.

“Nellie suggested that I come along and see if there was anything I could do,” said he. “I’ve done a little acting at school, you know, and a bit since. Never tried Shakespeare though.”

“Ah,” said Hector, seriously, “Shakespeare will test all of us to the uttermost.”

“I dare say,” said Roger, somewhat dismayed by this pious approach to the matter.

“Nevertheless, we are fortunate in our director. A professional, you know. She will tell us our faults. It may be severe, but we can take it.” Hector smiled darkly at the thought of the artistic travail ahead. “There will be a great deal to be learned,” he continued, with sober satisfaction; he was still trying to convince himself that his desire to act was rooted in a passion for self-improvement, rather than in a simple wish to have fun.

Roger wondered how to get away from this fellow. Every man has his own set of minor hypocrisies and Roger’s was extensive, but it did not include the trick of disguising pleasure as education. Luckily Solly was passing at the moment and he hailed him.

“Hello there, Ridgetower,” said he; “are you going to try for a part?”

“Hello, Brasset,” said Solly; “no, I’m not.”

“Not Brasset; Tasset.”

“How odd. Not Ridgetower; Bridgetower.”

“Sorry. I’m bad at names, I’m afraid.”

“But you never forget a face, I’ll bet.”

“Well, no; as a matter of fact I don’t. How did you know?”

“It is characteristic of people who forget names that they never forget faces. At least, so I have often been told. It seems a pity. Only remembering half, I mean.”

Roger had an uncomfortable feeling that he was being got at. A frowsy lot of fellows you met in clubs like this. McNabb—no, Mac-whatever-it-was—and this fellow Bridgetower, with his messy hair and his long nose. Thought himself smart, obviously; a university smart-alec. Roger squared his shoulders and looked soldierly. There was one thing he never forgot, and that was a girl’s face. Neither of these fellows looked as though they had ever seen a girl at shorter range than thirty yards. He could afford to despise them.

“You have both acquainted yourselves with the play, I suppose?” said Hector, who sensed a strain in the conversation and sought dexterously to relieve it. He failed in his purpose, for Solly was affronted by the suggestion that any Shakespearean play was unfamiliar to him, and Roger, who had been in many plays and had never troubled to read more than his own part, felt that the schoolteacher was trying to be officious.

“Time enough for that when we know whether we have parts or not,” said he. And Hector, who was not as self-assured in these circumstances as he pretended, took this as a suggestion that he might be passed over in the distribution of roles, and flushed.

It was at this moment, luckily, that Nellie tapped on the table for order, and the three men parted with relief, and took chairs. Nellie told the meeting what it was for, which everybody knew, and then asked Professor Vambrace to say a few words. The Professor told the meeting, in his turn, that Shakespeare had been a playwright of genius, and that the Salterton Little Theatre, with its customary instinct for the best in everything, had chosen to present one of his finest comedies. In a rather long parenthesis he explained that a comedy need not be particularly funny. He touched upon the Comic Spirit, and quoted Meredith at some length and with remarkable accuracy. He then gave quite a full synopsis of the plot of The Tempest and quoted two or three passages which he especially admired, all of which, by coincidence, were from the role of Prospero. He moved himself visibly. In all, he spoke for twenty minutes, and when he sat down there was respectful applause.

Nellie rose again, and told the meeting how fortunate the Little Theatre was to have Miss Valentine Rich of New York and London to direct the play for them. She assured them that it would be a rare privilege to work with Miss Rich, and that nothing short of their utmost efforts would suffice under such circumstances. Miss Rich was a person of whom Salterton might well be proud. She was also an example to the Little Theatre of what might be achieved by sheer hard work. Miss Rich would now address them.