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,
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."