Griselda was not the only girl in the room with pretensions to beauty. Valentine Rich did not pay much attention to the reading; she knew that she could, if necessary, impose an appearance of intelligence upon an actor, but she could not give a good presence to someone who lacked it; she searched the room for people who might look well in costume. Her eye was taken by Pearl Vambrace. There, she thought, was a girl with possibilities. A distinguished, rather than a pretty, face; lots of nice dark hair, rather in need of a good vinegar rinse; not a bad figure and really beautiful eyes. But it was Pearl’s expression which made her face an arresting one; she had the still, expectant look of one listening to an inner voice. This was a girl, thought Valentine, who must in some way be brought upon the stage.

There was to be no difficulty about it, seemingly. When the part of Miranda was open to contest, Pearl read the test passage very well, with intonations which suggested those of her father, though not to a farcical degree. As she read Vambrace fixed her with a steady gaze, and moved his lips in time with hers; once or twice he frowned, as though to show that she had departed in some measure from the pattern he had set for her. Valentine thought this irritating and embarrassing.

When at last the reading was over the committee retired to make its decisions; as the club had no private room they were compelled to go out on the landing, shut the door behind them, and stand at the head of the stair. Those to whom this delicate task was given were Nellie, Professor Vambrace, Solly and Valentine. The other club members remained inside, where cakes and strong tea were being served.

“This shouldn’t take very long,” said Nellie. “Just as I expected, no outstanding new talent showed up. Except Roger Tasset, of course. Isn’t he a dream? A wonderful Ferdinand.”

“The casting of Ferdinand must hang, to some extent, upon the casting of Miranda,” said Professor Vambrace, weightily. “We must achieve a balance, there. Young Tasset has weight, undeniable weight. The question is, has he too much weight? We do not want him to seem—how shall I say it—too heavy for our Miranda. Whoever she may be,” he added, in a tone as though the club were alive with young women capable of playing that part.

“I don’t think there’s any doubt that Pearl is our choice for Miranda,” said Nellie.

“Do you really think so?” said Vambrace anxiously. “It is very hard for me to be objective in such a decision. In fact, I shall not take part in it.”

“Your daughter read charmingly,” said Valentine. “A little on the rhetorical side, perhaps, but that is a fault which is easily corrected. And she looks right for the part. In fact, I want her for Miranda.”

“Do you really?” said the Professor. “You think that she has the—how can I describe it—the weight, the authority for Miranda?”

“Miranda is only fifteen,” said Valentine. “Authority is not really so necessary as a good appearance and a nice voice. She has both.”

“You feel that her voice will suffice?” said the anxious father. “I cannot conceal from myself that it lacks sonority, particularly in the higher tones. And you must realize that she was not at her best this evening. I warned her. I warned her repeatedly. But she would go on sucking coughdrops all evening and as a result, when it came her time to read, she was cloyed. I was quite vexed with her.”

“She will be very good,” said Valentine; “and she will look very well with Tasset.”

“Aha,” said the Professor, rubbing his chin with a rasping sound. “Yes; she will play chiefly with him and with whomever we may choose for Prospero. We must strive for balance, within our limitations.”

“Well, if you play Prospero,” said Valentine, “the balance should be just about perfect.”

“The decision must be made by the remainder of the committee without reference to me,” said the Professor. “Common decency forbids that I should have any part in it. But there is just one point—not, I think, an unimportant one—which I must make before I retire. It is this: if I play Prospero—mark you, I say if—the question of a convincing family resemblance between that character and Miranda is adequately dealt with.” The Professor bowed slightly, and withdrew himself to a distance of five feet from the rest of the committee, which was all the withdrawal possible on the landing. It did not occur to him to go downstairs.

“Oh do come back, Walter,” said Nellie. “We’ve never seriously thought of anyone but you.” It was only in moments of the utmost emotional stress that anyone called Professor Vambrace by his first name.

“I had imagined that it was settled some time ago,” said Valentine mildly. She was wearying of the Professor’s coyness.

“We did speak of it, sometimes, as a possibility; but when it comes to casting we are determined to give everyone a fair chance,” said Vambrace, whose relief and pleasure at having secured the best part for himself were wonderful to behold.

“In that case, what are we going to do with Mr Leakey?” said Valentine. “He wanted to be Prospero, and he didn’t read too badly.”

“Oh Val, he was dreadful,” said Nellie.

“Not impossibly dreadful; he was nervous, having to brave us all, poor sweet. I’d like to cast him as one of the funnies. Stephano, for instance.”

“Why not cast him for Gonzalo?” asked Nellie.

“Because I want Mr Mackilwraith for Gonzalo.”

“But Val, he’s such a stodge.”

“So was Gonzalo a stodge. Anyhow Mackilwraith will look very fine with some grey in his hair and a nice beard. Shakespearean stodges must be made picturesque.”

“I’d like to be perfectly sure that Mackilwraith in that part wouldn’t upset the balance of the play,” said the Professor.

“May I suggest, Professor Vambrace, that I shall be able to do a good deal to give the play its proper balance?” said Valentine.

“Oh quite, quite, quite.”

“Now for Caliban, I want that rubbery-looking boy. What’s his name—Shortreed.”

“But Val, he hasn’t been in the club long, and he’s one of the stewards in the liquor store. Will he be acceptable to the rest of the cast? We have to think of that.”

“You think of it,” said Valentine. “I want him for Caliban.”

In this fashion the casting proceeded. Valentine got her way about everything. Faced by her determination, Nellie and Professor Vambrace were ineffective. This was the first time that Valentine had shown anything but an indifferent acquiescence to their proposals, and they wondered uneasily whether she might not prove a Tartar. The fact was that in matters relating to her work, Valentine was not a theorizer and a talker, but a worker, and this was the first occasion that she had been able to get her teeth into anything solid in connection with the play. When she saw a group of possible actors, she could do her casting rapidly and without reference to Little Theatre politics. In a remarkably short time all the male parts in the play were decided upon.

“Now,” said she, “what about the women? We’ve got Miranda. Who’s to be Ariel? It’ll have to be a girl; you have no man with ballet training, I suppose? You said something about Griselda Webster, Nellie; is there any special reason why she should have it, aside from the fact that she is pretty?”

“Yes. She sings quite well.”

“Have you heard her?”

“Well, no; not really. But I’ve been told.”

“I’ll hear her tomorrow. Her figure isn’t precisely what I would choose for an airy spirit. However, we can’t have everything. Now what about these goddesses?”

“If I may make a suggestion,” said Professor Vambrace, “I think that Miss Wildfang should be considered for the part of Juno. She has not thrust herself forward, but she has been a very faithful worker in the Little Theatre since its foundation, and the head of the refreshment committee for the past seven years. She has, unquestionably, a classic countenance. For “ox-eyed Juno”, as Homer describes her, I cannot think of a more fitting choice.”