"I've been trying to make a fine thing out of acting now for three
years, ever since I was little more than a child--a real child in the
little I knew. And if I had not minded certain things of course by now I
could have been a leading lady and driven in my brougham, or left the
stage for good--or for bad. But one cannot alter the way one is made, or
drop the ideas one was brought up to have ... at least I can't; and so
I'm still in the attic in Cecil Street, with a small part and no
prospects. And how I hate it all sometimes; you can't imagine how I hate
it! London is like an awful monster that draws one in inch by inch--a
monster that breathes soot instead of fire."

Ishmael had been turning over a wonderful plan in his mind while she was
speaking, an idea that had flashed on him before, but that had seemed
too splendid to be possible of realization. Now, emboldened by her
words, he ventured on the great question.

"I say," he began, "why not, when you want a holiday, when this piece
you're playing in is over, come and stay at Cloom? I don't know whether
you've heard--whether Carminow has told you about me--I hope he has; I
dropped him a hint, because I hate to think I'm sailing under false
colours with you--" He paused, his courageous words dying in hot
embarrassment. Blanche met him perfectly.

"I know all about it. Mr. Carminow told me. What difference does it
make, except to make your friends care all the more for you?"

"Then you would come? My sister Vassie--you'd like her. And I think even
my mother would love you. It would be so good for you after all this."

She did not reply at once and Ishmael's heart sank.