Susan gazed at him as if she doubted her eyes and ears.
"What do you want me to do?" she presently inquired.
"Learn the art of acting--which consists of two parts. First, you must learn to act--thousands of the profession do that.
Second, you must learn not to act--and so far I know there aren"t a dozen in the whole world who"ve got that far along.
I"ve written a play I think well of. I want to have it done properly--it, and several other plays I intend to write. I"m going to give you a chance to become famous--better still, great."
Susan looked at him incredulously. "Do you know who I am?"
she asked at last.
"Certainly."
Her eyes lowered, the faintest tinge of red changed the amber-white pallor of her cheeks, her bosom rose and fell quickly.
"I don"t mean," he went on, "that I know any of the details of your experience. I only know the results as they are written in your face. The details are unimportant. When I say I know who you are, I mean I know that you are a woman who has suffered, whose heart has been broken by suffering, but not her spirit. Of where you came from or how you"ve lived, I know nothing. And it"s none of my business--no more than it"s the public"s business where _I_ came from and how I"ve learned to write plays."
Well, whether he was guessing any part of the truth or all of it, certainly what she had said about the police and now this sweeping statement of his att.i.tude toward her freed her of the necessity of disclosing herself. She eagerly tried to dismiss the thoughts that had been making her most uneasy. She said:
"You think I can learn to act?"
"That, of course," replied he. "Any intelligent person can learn to act--and also most persons who have no more intelligence in their heads than they have in their feet.
I"ll guarantee you some sort of career. What I"m interested to find out is whether you can learn _not_ to act. I believe you can. But----" He laughed in self-mockery. "I"ve made several absurd mistakes in that direction. . . . You have led a life in which most women become the cheapest sort of liars--worse liars even than is the usual respectable person, because they haven"t the restraint of fearing loss of reputation. Why is it you have not become a liar?"
Susan laughed. "I"m sure I don"t know. Perhaps because lying is such a tax on the memory. May I have another cigarette?"
He held the match for her. "You don"t paint--except your lips," he went on, "though you have no color. And you don"t wear cheap finery. And while you use a strong scent, it"s not one of the cheap and nasty kind--it"s sensual without being slimy. And you don"t use the kind of words one always hears in your circle."
Susan looked immensely relieved. "Then you _do_ know who I am!" she cried.
"You didn"t suppose I thought you fresh from a fashionable boarding school, did you? I"d hardly look there for an actress who could act. You"ve got experience--experience--experience--written all over your face--sadly, satirically, scornfully, gayly, bitterly. And what I want is experience--not merely having been through things, but having been through them understandingly. You"ll help me in my experiment?"
He looked astonished, then irritated, when the girl, instead of accepting eagerly, drew back in her chair and seemed to be debating. His irritation showed still more plainly when she finally said:
"That depends on him. And he--he thinks you don"t like him."
"What"s his name?" said Brent in his abrupt, intense fashion.
"What"s his name?"
"Spenser--Roderick Spenser."
Brent looked vague.
"He used to be on the _Herald_. He writes plays."
"Oh--yes. I remember. He"s a weak fool."
Susan abruptly straightened, an ominous look in eyes and brow.
Brent made an impatient gesture. "Beg pardon. Why be sensitive about him? Obviously because you know I"m right.
I said fool, not a.s.s. He"s clever, but ridiculously vain. I don"t dislike him. I don"t care anything about him--or about anybody else in the world. No man does who amounts to anything. With a career it"s as Jesus said--leave father and mother, husband and wife--land, ox everything--and follow it."
"What for?" said Susan.
"To save your soul! To be a somebody; to be strong. To be able to give to anybody and everybody--whatever they need. To be happy."
"Are you happy?"
"No," he admitted. "But I"m growing in that direction. . . .
Don"t waste yourself on Stevens--I beg pardon, Spenser.
You"re bigger than that. He"s a small man with large dreams--a hopeless misfit. Small dreams for small men; large dreams for--" he laughed--"you and me--our sort."
Susan echoed his laugh, but faint-heartedly. "I"ve watched your name in the papers," she said, sincerely unconscious of flattery. "I"ve seen you grow more and more famous. But--if there had been anything in me, would I have gone down and down?"
"How old are you?"
"About twenty-one."
"Only twenty-one and that look in your face! Magnificent! I don"t believe I"m to be disappointed this time. You ask why you"ve gone down! You haven"t. You"ve gone _through_."
"Down," she insisted, sadly.
"Nonsense! The soot"ll rub off the steel."
She lifted her head eagerly. Her own secret thought put into words.
"You can"t make steel without soot and dirt. You can"t make anything without dirt. That"s why the nice, prim, silly world"s full of cabinets exhibiting little chips of raw material polished up neatly in one or two spots. That"s why there are so few men and women--and those few have had to make themselves, or are made by accident. You"re an accident, I suppose. The women who amount to anything usually are. The last actress I tried to do anything with might have become a somebody if it hadn"t been for one thing: She had a hankering for respectability--a yearning to be a society person--to be thought well of by society people. It did for her."
"I"ll not sink on that rock," said Susan cheerfully.
"No secret longing for social position?"
"None. Even if I would, I couldn"t."
"That"s one heavy handicap out of the way. But I"ll not let myself begin to hope until I find out whether you"ve got incurable and unteachable vanity. If you have--then, no hope.
If you haven"t--there"s a fighting chance."
"You forget my compact," Susan reminded him.
"Oh--the lover--Spenser."
Brent reflected, strolled to the big window, his hands deep in his pockets. Susan took advantage of his back to give way to her own feelings of utter amazement and incredulity. She certainly was not dreaming. And the man gazing out at the window was certainly flesh and blood--a great man, if voluble and eccentric. Perhaps to act and speak as one pleased was one of the signs of greatness, one of its perquisites. Was he amusing himself with her? Was he perchance taken with her physically and employing these extraordinary methods as ways of approach? She had seen many peculiarities of s.e.x-approach in men--some grotesque, many terrible, all beyond comprehension. Was this another such?
He wheeled suddenly, surprised her eyes upon him. He burst out laughing, and she felt that he had read her thoughts.
However, he merely said:
"Have you anything to suggest--about Spenser?"
"I can"t even tell him of your offer now. He"s very ill--and sensitive about you."