Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different he was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward’s studio!
His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and desire had come to meet it on the way.
“And what do you propose to do?” said Lord Henry at last.
“I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I have not the slightest fear of the result. You are certain to acknowledge her genius.
Then we must get her out of the Jew’s hands. She is bound to him for three years—at least for two years and eight months—from the present time. I shall have to pay him something, of course.
When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and bring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has made me.”
“That would be impossible, my dear boy.”
“Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it is personalities, not principles, that move the age.”
“Well, what night shall we go?”
“Let me see. Today is Tuesday. Let us fix tomorrow. She plays Juliet tomorrow.”
“All right. The Bristol at eight o’clock; and I will get Basil.”