Betty Morena was sitting in a rustic chair before an open fire, smoking

a cigarette. She was a short woman, so slenderly, even narrowly built,

as to appear overgrown, and she was a mature woman so immaturely shaped

and featured as to appear hardly more than a child. Her curly, russet

hair was parted at the side, her wide, long-lashed eyes were set far

apart, her nose was really a finely modeled snub,--more, a boy's nose

even to a light sprinkling of freckles,--and her mouth was provokingly

the soft, red mouth of a sorrowful child. She lounged far down in her

chair, her slight legs, clad in riding-breeches of perfect cut,

stretched out straight, her limber arms along the arms of the chair,

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her chin sunk on her flat chest, and her big, clear eyes staring into

the fire. It was an odd figure of a wife for Jasper Morena, a Jew of

thirty-eight, producer and manager of plays.

When Betty Kane had run away with him, there had been lamentation and

rage in the houses of Kane and of Morena. To the pride of an old

Hebrew family, the marriage even of this wandering son with a Gentile

was fully as degrading as to the pride of the old Tory family was the

marriage with a Jew. Her perverse Gaelic blood on fire with the

insults heaped upon her lover, Betty, seventeen years old, romantic,

clever, would have walked over flint to give her hand to him. That was

ten years ago. Now, when Jasper came into her room, she drew her quick

brows together, puffed at her cigarette, and blinked as though she was

looking at something distasteful and at the same time rather alarming.

"Have they stopped dancing, Jasper?" she asked in a voice that was at

once brusque and soft.

Jasper rubbed his hands delightedly. He was still merry, and came to

stand near the fire, looking down at her with eyes entirely kind and

admiring.

"Have you ever noticed Jane, who cooks for the outfit, Betty?"

"Yes. She's horrible."

"She's extraordinary, and I mean to get hold of her for Luck's play.

Did you read it?"

"Yes."

"The play is absolutely dependent on the leading part and I have found

it simply impossible to fill. Now, here's a woman of extraordinary

grace and beauty--"

Betty lifted skeptical eyebrows, twisted her limber mouth, but forbore

to contradict.

"And with a magical voice--a woman who not only looks the part, but is

it. You remember Luck's heroine?"

Betty flicked off the ash of her cigarette and looked away. "A savage,

isn't she? The man has her tamed, takes her back to London, and there

gives her cause for jealousy and she springs on him--yes, I remember.

This woman, Jane, is absolutely without education and hasn't a notion

of acting, I suppose."




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