The Foolish Lovers

by St. John G. Ervine

THE SECOND CHAPTER

I

He had gone to bed before the Creams returned from their round of the music-halls, but in the morning, when Lizzie had removed the remnants of his breakfast, John heard a tap on the door of the sitting-room, and on opening it, found a small, wistful-looking man, with a smiling face, standing outside.

"Good-morning," said the stranger, holding his hand out. "I'm Cream from the ground-floor!"

"Oh, yes," John answered, shaking hands with him. "Come in, won't you!"

"Well, I was going to suggest you should come down and be introduced to the wife. She'd like to meet you!" Mr. Cream said, entering the sitting-room as he spoke.

John had a sensation of self-consciousness when he heard the word "wife."

"Settling down comfortably?" Mr. Cream continued.

"Oh, yes, thank you," said John. "I went out all day yesterday and had my first look at London!"

"And what do you think of it? Great place, eh?"

John confessed that he had been disappointed in London, and in a few moments he began to recite a list of the things that had disappointed him.

"Wait 'til you've been here a few months," Mr. Cream interrupted. "You'll love this town. You'll hate loving it, but you won't be able to help yourself. I've been all over the world, the wife and me, and I've seen some of the loveliest places on earth, but London's got me. You'll be the same. You see!" He glanced about the room, casting his eyes critically at the books. "I hear you're a writer, too?" he said, less as an assertion than as a question.

"I've written one book," John replied, "but it hasn't been printed. I want to discuss it with Mr. Hinde, but I haven't had a chance to do that yet. He's been away ever since I arrived. He'll be home the day though!"

"So Lizzie told me. Queer bird, Lizzie, isn't she?"

"Very," said John.

"But she's a good soul. I'd trust Lizzie with every ha'penny I have, but I wouldn't trust that old cat of an aunt of hers with a brass farthing. She's too religious to be honest. That's my opinion of her. Come on down and see the wife!" He rose from his seat as he spoke. "I suppose you've never tried your hand at a play, have you?" he asked, leading the way to the door.

"No, not yet, but I had a notion of trying," John said, following him.

"I could give you a few tips if you needed advice," Mr. Cream continued, as they descended the stairs. "As a matter of fact, the wife and me are in need of a new piece for the halls, and it struck me this morning when I heard you were a writer, that mebbe you could do a piece for us. It would be practice for you!"

"What about Mr. Hinde?" John asked.

"I've tried him time after time, but it's no good asking. He's a journalist, and a journalist can only work when he's excited. Put him down to something that needs thought and care, and he's lost. And he always says he's writing a tragedy about St. Patrick and can't think of anything else!"

John smiled, without quite understanding why he was smiling, and followed Mr. Cream into the ground floor sitting-room where Mrs. Cream was lying on a sofa.

"This is the wife," Mr. Cream said. "Dolly, this is Mr.... Mr!..."

"MacDermott," John prompted.

"Oh, yes, of course. Mr. MacDermott. Lizzie did tell me, but I can never remember Irish names somehow!"

Mrs. Cream extended a limp hand to John. "You must excuse me for not getting up," she said, "but I'm always very tired in the morning!"

"You see, Mac," Mr. Cream explained, "Dolly is a very intense actress ... I think she's the most intense actress on the stage ... and she gets very worked up in emotional pieces. Don't you, Dolly?"

Dolly nodded her head, and then, as if the effort of doing so had been too great an exertion for her, she lay back on the sofa and closed her eyes.

"Perhaps I'd better go!..." John suggested.

"Oh, no, no! She's always like that. All right in the afternoon. Won't you, Dolly?"

Dolly waved her hand feebly.

"Her acting takes a lot out of her," Mr. Cream said. "Very exhausting all that emotional work. Bound to be ... bound to be! Now, comic work's different. I can be as comic as you like, and all that happens is I'm nicely tired about bedtime, and I sleep like a top. In fact, I might say I sleep like two tops, for the wife's so unnerved, as you might say, by her own acting that it takes her half the night to settle down. Nerves, my boy. That's what it is! Nerves! I tell you, Mac, old chap, if you want to have a good night's rest, go in for comic work, but if you want to lie awake and think, tragedy's your trade. Nerves all on edge. Overwrought. Terrible thing, tragedy! Isn't it, Dolly?"

Mrs. Cream moaned slightly and twisted about on the sofa. "Too much talk!" she murmured.

"All right, my dear, all right. Suppose we just go up to your room again, Mac, and talk until she's quieted down? Eh?"

"Very well," said John who was feeling exceedingly uncomfortable.

They left the room together, John walking on tiptoe, for he felt that the situation made such a solemnity necessary.

"Temperament is a peculiar thing," Mr. Cream said as they ascended the stairs.

"Evidently," John answered.

"I may as well warn you that Dolly'll make love to you when she's recovered herself, but you needn't let it worry you. She can't help it, poor dear, and I often think it's the only real relaxation she has ... with her temperament. Just humour her, old chap, if she does. I'll know you don't mean anything by it. It's temperament, that's all it is. Dolly wouldn't do anything ... not for the world ... but it gives her a lot of satisfaction to pretend she's doing something. Lot of women like that, Mac. Not nice women, really ... except Dolly, of course ... and you can excuse her because of her temperament!"

They entered the sitting-room and sat down at the table.

"And I may as well tell you," Cream continued, "that Dolly and me aren't married. I'd like to be regular myself, but Dolly says she'd feel respectable if she was married ... and she thinks you can't be tragic if you're respectable. She always says that she's at her best when she feels that I've ruined her life. I daresay she's right, old chap, only I'd like to be regular myself. As I tell her, if it's hard to be tragic when you're respectable, it's damn hard to be comic when you're not. I expect Lizzie told you about me and Dolly?"

John nodded his head.

"I thought as much. Lizzie always tells people. I don't know what the hell she'd do for gossip if we were to get married. I can't think how she found out ... unless Dolly told her ... but you can be certain of this, Mac, if there's a skeleton in your cupboard, Lizzie'll discover it. Dolly's the skeleton in my cupboard. Of course, old chap, I don't want it talked about. I wouldn't have told you anything about it, only I guessed that Lizzie'd told you. Not that I mind you or Hinde knowing ... you're writers ... but music-hall people are so particular about things of that sort. You wouldn't believe how narrow-minded and old-fashioned they are about marriage ... not like actors. That's really why I mentioned the matter. I don't want you to think I'm bragging about it or anything!"

"Oh, no, no," said John. "No, of course not. I wouldn't dream of saying a word to anybody!"

"Thanks, Mac, old chap!" Cream extended his hand to John, and John, wondering why it was offered to him, shook it. "Now about this idea of mine for a play!"

"Play?"

"Yes, for me and Dolly. Why shouldn't you do one for us? The minute I heard you were a writer, I turned to Dolly and I said, 'Dolly, darling, let's get him to do a play for us!' And she agreed at once. She said, 'Do what you like, darling, but don't worry me about it!' You see, Mac, we're getting a bit tired of this piece we're doing now ... we've been doing it twice-nightly for four years ... The Girl Gets Left, we call it ... and we want new stuff. See? We'd like a good dramatic piece ... a little bit of high-class in it ... for Dolly ... if you like, only not too much. Classy stuff wants living up to it, and I haven't got it in me, and people aren't always in the mood for it either. In the music-halls, anyway. See?"

"But!..."

"Dramatic stuff ... that's what we want. Go! Snap! Plenty of ginger! Raise hell's delight and then haul down the curtain quick before the audience has had time to pull itself together. See? We'd treat the author very handsome if we could get hold of a good piece with a big emotional part for the wife ... and although I'm her husband ... in the sight of God, anyway ... I will say this for her, Mac, there's not another woman on the stage ... Ellen Terry, Mrs. Pat or Sarah Bernhardt herself ... can hold a candle to Dolly for emotional parts. Of course, there'd have to be a comic part for me, too, but you needn't worry much about that. I always make up my own part to a certain extent. Just give me the bare outline: I'll do the rest. You see, I understand the public ... it's a knack, of course ... and I can always improve the author's stuff easy. What do you say?"

"I don't know," said John.

"You needn't put your name to it, if you don't want to. Use a nom de plume or leave the name out altogether. Our audience doesn't pay any attention to authors, so that won't matter. And it'll be a start for you, Mac!"

"Oh, yes!"

"Any little bit of success, even if you're half ashamed of it, bucks you wonderful, Mac ... I say, you don't mind me calling you Mac, do you?..."

"No," John replied.

"Somehow it's homely when you can call a chap Mac, somehow! Now, if you was to do a play for us, and it went well, it'd put heart into you for something better. If you can find your way to the heart of a music-hall audience, Mac, my boy, you can find your way anywhere. Now, what about it, eh! Will you try to do a piece for us?"

"I'll try, but!..."

"That's all right," said Cream, again extending his hand to John. "Dolly'll be very pleased to hear we've settled it!"

"But I've never seen a music-hall play!" John exclaimed, "and you haven't said how much you'll pay me for it!"

"Never been in a music-hall!... Where was you brought up, Mac!"

"In Ballyards," John replied seriously.

"Where's that?"

"Have you never heard of Ballyards, Mr. Cream?"

"No," the comedian replied.

"Well, where were you brought up then?"

Cream regarded him closely for a few moments. Then he burst into laughter and again shook John fervently by the hand.

"That's one up for you, Mac!" he said genially. "Quite a repartee. Well, come with us to-night and see The Girl Gets Left. That'll give you a notion of the sort of stuff we want. See?"

"How much will you pay me for it?"

"Well, we gave the chap that wrote The Girl Gets Left ... poor chap, he died of drink about six weeks ago ... couldn't keep away from it ... signed the pledge ... ate sweets ... did everything ... no good ... always thought out his best jokes when he was drunk ... well, we gave him thirty bob a week for The Girl Gets Left ... and mind you he was an experienced chap, too ... but Dolly and me, we've decided you have to pay a bit extra for classy stuff, and we'll give you two quid a week for the piece if it suits us. Two quid a week as long as the play runs, Mac. The Girl Gets Left has been played for four years ... four years, Mac ... all over the civilised globe. If your piece was to run that long, you'd get Four Hundred and Sixteen Quid. Four Hundred and Sixteen shiny Jimmy o' Goblins, Mac! Think of it! And all for a couple of afternoons' work!..."

"And how much will you get out of it?" John asked.

"Oh, I dunno. Enough to pay the rent anyhow. You know, Mac, these high-class chaps like Barrie and Bernard Shaw, they've never had a play run for four years anywhere, and yet old Hookings, that nobody never knew nothing about and died of drink, his play was performed all over the civilised world for four years. That's something to be proud of, that is. Four solid years! But there was nothing in the papers about him, when he died ... nothing ... not a word. And if Barrie was to die, or Bernard Shaw ... columns, pages! Barrie ... well, he's all right, of course ... not bad ... but compare him with Hookings. Why, he doesn't know the outside of the human heart, not the outside of it he doesn't, and Hookings knew what the inside of it's like. You take that play of Barrie's, The Twelve Pound Look. Not bad...not a bad play, at all ... but where's the feeling heart in it? Play that piece in front of an audience of coalminers and what 'ud you get? The bird, my boy! That sort of stuff is all right for the West End ... but the people, Mac, want something that hits 'em straight between the eyes and gives 'em a kick in the stomach as well. The best way to make a man sit up and take a bit of notice is to hit him a punch on the jaw, and the best way to make the public feel sympathetic is to hit it a punch in the heart!..."

The little man broke off suddenly and glanced towards the door. "I must toddle down to Dolly now. She gets fretful if I'm out of her sight for long. I'll see you later on ... seven o 'clock, old chap!"

"Very good," John answered.

"Aw reservoir, then!" said Cream, as he left the room and hurried downstairs.

II

He told himself that he ought to do some work, but the desire to see more of London overcame his good resolution, and so he left the house and set out again for the town. He hoped that he might see Eleanor Moore. If he were to go to the tea-shop at the same hour as she had entered it yesterday, he might contrive to seat himself at her table again, and this time perhaps she would listen to him. When he reached the City, he found that he was too early for the mid-day meal, and so he resolved to go and stand about the entrance to the office where Eleanor Moore was employed. He would see her coming out of it and could follow discreetly after her.... But although he waited for an hour, she did not appear, nor was she to be seen in the tea-shop, when, tired and disappointed, he took his place in it. He dallied over his meal, hoping every moment that she would turn up, but at length he had to go away without seeing her. At teatime, he told himself, he would come again and wait for her. He climbed on to a 'bus and let himself be taken to Charing Cross, where he enquired the way to the National Gallery. He wandered through the rooms until his eyes ached with looking at the pictures and his feet were sore with walking on the polished floors. He felt self-conscious when he looked at the nudes, and he blushed when he found a woman standing by his side as he looked at the portrait of Jean Arnolfini and Jeanne his wife by van Eyck. He turned hotly away, and wondered that there was no blush on the face of the woman. In Ballyards, a man always pretended not to see a woman about to have a child ... unless, of course, he was with other men and the woman could not see him, when he would crack jokes about her condition!... Here, however, people actually exhibited pictures of pregnant women in a public place where all sorts, old and young, male and female, could look at them ... and no one appeared to mind. It might be all right, of course, and after all a woman in that way was natural enough ... but he had been brought up to be ashamed of seeing such things, and he could not very well become easy about them in a moment.... And he became very tired of Holy Families and Crucifixions!...

"I'll walk back to the place," he said to himself as he left the Gallery and crossed Trafalgar Square. He dappled his fingers in the water of one of the fountains, and listened to two little Cocknies wrangling together....

"They've a queer way of talking," he said to himself.

...and then he started off down the Strand towards Fleet Street and the City. Eleanor Moore was not in the tea-shop when he entered it, nor did she come into it while he remained there. He finished his meal and walked in the direction of the Royal Exchange and just as he was running out of the way of a 'bus, he saw her going towards the stairs leading into the Tube.

"There she is," he murmured and hurried after her.

She was at the foot of the stairs when he reached the top of them, and when he had got to the foot of them, she was almost at the entrance to the booking-office of the Tube. He tried to get near her so that he might speak to her, but the press of people going home prevented him from doing so. He saw her go down the steps and take her place in the queue of people purchasing tickets, and he walked across to the bookstall and stood there until she had obtained her ticket. Then as she walked to the lift, he moved towards her. She was examining her change as she walked along, and did not see him until he was close to her. He meant to say, "Oh, Miss Moore, may I speak to you for a moment!" but suddenly he became totally inarticulate, and while he was struggling to say something, she looked up and saw him. She started slightly, then her face became flushed, and she hurried forward and joined the group of wedged people in the lift. He determined to follow her, but while he was resolving to do so, the lift attendant shouted, "Next lift, please!" and pulled the gates together. He watched the light disappear from the little windows at the top of the gates!...

"I've missed her again," he said.

III

He was just in time to swallow a hurried meal and set off to the theatre with the Creams. Mrs. Cream, recovered from the devastating effects of a tragical temperament, was very vivacious as they sat in the brougham; and she rallied him on his authorship. She told him that when he was a celebrated writer, she would be able to say that she had discovered him....

"As a matter of fact, Dolly," said her husband, "it was me that thought of the idea!"

She ignored her husband. She pretended that John would become too proud to know the poor little Creams!...

"I'm not too proud to know anyone," he interrupted.

She burbled at him, and pressed closer to him. "You're quite complimentary," she said.

Cream had given John a note to the manager of the theatre which induced that gentleman to admit him, free of charge, to the stalls. He would travel home by himself, for the Creams had to play at other music-halls, and would not be able to take him back to Brixton in their brougham. "We finish up at Walham Green," said Cream, as John left the carriage.

He waited impatiently for the performance of The Girl Gets Left, and he had an extraordinary sense of pleasure when he saw Cream's wistful face peering through a window immediately after the curtain went up. The little man was remarkably funny. His look, his voice, his gestures, all compelled laughter from the audience without the audience understanding quite why it was amused. He had the pathetic appearance that all great comedians have, the look of appeal that one saw in the face of Dan Leno, in the face of James Welch, and it seemed that he might as easily cry as laugh. The words he had to say were poor, vapid things, but when he said them, he put some of his own life into them and gave them a greater value than they deserved. The turn of his head was comic; a queer little helpless movement of his hands was comic; the way in which he seemed to stop short and gulp as if he were bracing himself up was comic; the swift downward and then upward glance of his eyes, followed by an assumption of complete humility and resignation, these were comic. And when he appeared on the stage, the audience, knowing something of his quality, collectively lifted itself into an attitude of attention.

A dismal young woman, singing a dreary lecherous song and showing an immense quantity of frilled underclothing, had occupied five or six minutes in boring the audience before The Girl Gets Left began; and an air of lassitude had enveloped the men who were sitting in relaxed attitudes in the theatre. Their eyes seemed to become dull, and they paid more attention to their pipes and their cigarettes than they paid to the young woman's underclothing.... But when The Girl Gets Left began, and the whimsical face of Cream was seen peering through the window of the scene, the lassitude was lifted and the men's eyes began to brighten again. The first words, the first gesture of comic helplessness, from Cream sent a ripple of laughter round the theatre, and immediately the place was full of that queer, uncontrollable thing, personality.

John laughed heartily at the acting of his new friend, and he decided that he would certainly try to write a play for him. How good Mrs. Cream must be if she were better than her husband, as he so proudly declared she was. It would be a privilege to write a play for people so clever.... Then Mrs. Cream, magnificently dressed, appeared, and as she did so, some of the atmosphere that enveloped the stage and the auditorium and made them one and very intimate, was dispelled. John watched her as she moved about the stage, and wondered why it was that the audience had suddenly become a little fidgetty. His eyes were full of astonishment. He gazed at Mrs. Cream as if he were trying to understand some ineluctable mystery.... He remembered how enthralled he had been by the acting of the girl who had played Juliet. He had been caught up and transported from the theatre to the very streets of Verona. He had felt that he was one of the crowd that followed the Montagues or the Capulets, and had been ready to bite his thumb with the best.... But here was something that left him uneasy and alien. He felt as if he were prying into private affairs, that at any moment someone, a policeman, perhaps, might come along and seize him for trespassing. He did not then know that bad acting always leaves an audience with a sensation of having intruded upon privacies ... that an actor who is incompetent leaves the people who see him acting badly with the feeling that they have vulgarly peeped into his dressing-room and seen him taking off his wig and wiping the paint from his face. Mrs. Cream acted with great vigour; her voice roared over the footlights; and she seemed to hurl herself about the scene as if she were determined either to smash the furniture or to smash herself. She made much noise. Her gestures were lavish. Her dresses were very costly and full of glitter. She worked hard....

"But she can't act," said John to himself, sighing with relief when at last she left the stage to her husband.

The little man's small, fragile voice, with its comic hesitation and its puzzled note, sounded very restful after the torrential noises made by his wife, and in a few moments he had the minds of the audience fused again into one mind and made completely attentive. When the play was ended, there was very hearty applause, but none of it so hearty as the applause from John. The last few moments of the piece had been given to Mr. Cream, and he had left the audience with the pleased impression of himself and forgetful of the jar it had received from his wife....

"That wee man can act all right," said John, clapping his hands until they were sore.

IV

Hinde was waiting for him in the sitting-room when he returned to the lodging-house.

"What did you think of the Creams?" the journalist asked when they had greeted each other and had ended their congratulations on being Ulstermen.

"He's very good," John began....

"And she's rotten?" Hinde interrupted.

"Well!..."

"Oh, my dear fellow, you needn't be afraid of telling me what you think. There's only one person in the world who doesn't realise that Mrs. Cream can't act and never will be able to act ... and that's poor old Cream himself. He's as good a comedian as there is in the world—that little man: the essence of Cockney wit; and he does not know how good he is. He thinks that she is much better than he can ever hope to be, and she thinks so, too; but if it were not for him, MacDermott, she wouldn't get thirty shillings a week in a penny gaff!"

"They've asked me to write a play for them," John said.

"Are you going to do it?"

"I don't know. That play to-night was a very common sort of a piece. It's not the style of play I want to do!..."

"What style of play do you want to do?" Hinde asked.

"Good plays. Plays like Shakespeare wrote."

Hinde looked at him quickly. "Oh, well," he said, "there's no harm in aiming high!"

John told him of the book he had written at Ballyards, and of the story he had sent to Blackwood's Magazine.

"I've a great ambition to do big things," he said.

"There's no harm in that either," Hinde replied. "In the meantime, what are you going to do? It'll be a wheen of years yet before you can hope to get anything big done!"

"Oh, I don't know about that," John answered confidently. "The MacDermotts are great people for getting their own way!"

"Mebbe they are ... in Ballyards," Hinde retorted, "but this isn't Ballyards. And you can't spend all your time writing masterpieces. You'll have to do a wee bit of ordinary common work. What about trying to get a job on a paper?"

"I don't mind taking a job if there's one to be got. Only what sort of a job?..."

Hinde teased him. "They'll not let you edit the Times yet awhile," he said.

"I don't want to edit it," John replied.

"Well, that's a lucky thing for the man that's got the job now!"

John felt aggrieved at once. "You're coddin' me," he complained.

"Say that again," Hinde exclaimed enthusiastically.

"Say what again?"

"Say I'm coddin' you. I haven't heard that word for years. Gwon! Say it!"

"You're coddin' me!..."

"Isn't it lovely? Isn't it a grand word, that? Good Ulster talk!..."

The door opened and Lizzie entered the room.

"Mr. 'Inde!..." she said.

"Don't call me 'Inde," he shouted, jumping up from his chair. "What do you think the letter h was put in the alphabet for? For you to leave it out?"

Lizzie smiled amiably at him. "Ow, go on," she said, "you're always 'avin' me on!" She turned to John. "'E's a 'oly terror, 'e is. Talks about me speakin' funny, but wot about 'im? I think Irish is the comicest way of talkin' I ever heard. Wot'll you 'ave for your breakfis, Mr. 'Inde?"

"Hinde, woman, Hinde!..."

"Well, wot'll you 'ave for your breakfis?"

"One of these days I'll have you fried and boiled and stewed!..."

Lizzie giggled.

"Ow, you are a funny man, Mr. 'Inde," she said between her titters.

Hinde gaped at her as if he were incapable of expressing himself in adequate language.

"That female," He said turning to John, "always tells me I'm a funny man!..."

"Well, so you are, Mr. 'Inde!" Lizzie interrupted.

"Get out," he roared at her.

Lizzie addressed John. "You'll get used to 'is comic ways when you know 'im as well as I do. Wot'll you 'ave for breakfis?" she continued, speaking again to Hinde.

"Anything," he replied. "Anything on God's earth, so long as you get out!"

"That's all I wanted to know," said Lizzie. "It'll be 'am an' eggs. Goo'-night, Mr. MacDermott!"

"Good-night, Lizzie," John murmured.

"Goo'-night, Mr. 'Inde!"

"Come here!" said Hinde.

She came across the room and stood beside him. He took hold of her chin. "If you hadn't such a rotten accent," he said, "I'd marry you!"

She giggled. "You do myke me laugh, Mr. 'Inde!" she said.

"Hinde, woman, Hinde!..."

She moved away from him as if he had uttered some perfectly commonplace remark. "Very well," she said, "it'll be 'am an' eggs for breakfis. I'm glad you chose them, because we ain't got nothink else in the 'ouse. Goo'-night, all!"

She went out of the room, but hardly had she shut the door behind her, when she opened it again.

"'Ere's the Creams 'ome again!" she said. "Goo'-night all!"

V

A few minutes later, Cream tapped on their door and, in response to Hinde's "Come in!" entered. He greeted Hinde lavishly, and then turned to John.

"Well, my boy," he said, "what do you think of her? Great, isn't she? Absolute eye-opener, that's what she is, I knew you'd be struck dumb by her. That's the effect she has on people. Paralyses them. Lays 'em out. By Gum, Mac, that woman's a wonder!..."

"How is she?" John asked.

Cream shook his head. "All in bits, as usual, Mac. I ought not to let her do the work ... it's wearing her out ... but you can't keep a great artist away from the stage. She'd die quicker if she weren't doing her work than she will while she's doing. That's Art, Mac. Extraordinary thing, Art!..."

"Have a drink, Cream," Hinde exclaimed.

"I don't mind if I do, Hinde, old chap. Did you notice how she held the audience, Mac? The minute she stepped on to the stage, she got 'em. Absolute! She played with 'em ... did what she liked with 'em!... I wish I could get hold of 'em like that. By Heaven, Mac, it must be wonderful to have that woman's power to make an audience do just what you want it to do!..."

Hinde handed a glass of whiskey and soda to him. "Thanks, old chap!" he said, taking it from him. He raised the glass. "Well, here's health!" he murmured, swallowing some of the drink. He put the glass down on the table beside him. "When do you think you'll be able to let us have the manuscript of the play, Mac?"

John started. "Well," he began nervously, "well, I haven't thought much about it yet!..."

"Look here," said Cream, "I've been talking to Dolly about the matter, and this is her idea. She wants to play in a piece about a naval lieutenant. See? In a submarine or something. Something with a bit of snap in it. She'd like to be an Irish girl called Kitty in love with the lieutenant. See? Make it so's he can wear his uniform and a cocked hat and a sword. See? The audience likes to see a bit of style. You could put a comic stoker in ... that 'ud do for me, but of course as I told you, you needn't worry much about my part. I'll look after myself. Now, do you think you could do anything with that idea? Dolly's dead set on playing an Irish girl, and of course, you being Irish and all that, you'd know the ropes!"

"I'll think about it," said John.

"Do. That's a good chap. And perhaps you can let me have the manuscript at the end of the week ... in the rough anyhow!"

He finished his whiskey and soda.

"Have another?" Hinde said.

"No, thanks, no. You know. Mac, the stage is a funny place. The average author doesn't realise what a funny place it is. I've met a few authors in my time, high-brow and low-brow and no-brow-at-all, and they're all the same: think they know more about the theatre than the actor does. But they don't. They all want to be littery. And that's no good ... in the music-halls anyhow. If you've got anything to say to a music-hall audience, don't waste time in being littery or anything like that. Bung It At 'Em, Mac!" He pronounced the last injunction with enormous emphasis. "An audience is about the thickest thing on earth. Got no brains to speak of, and doesn't want to have any. Mind you, each person in the audience may be as clever as you like, but as an audience ... see? ... they're simply thick. And if you want 'em to understand anything, you've got to Bung It At 'Em. No use being delicate or pretty or anything like that. That's what authors don't understand. Now, you heard those back-chat-comedians at the Oxford to-night?"

John nodded his head. "They weren't much good," he said.

"Why?" Cream demanded, and then, before John could speak, he went on to give the answer to his question. "Because they don't know how to get their stuff over the footlights. That's why! They had good stuff to work with, but they didn't know what to do with it. I could have told 'em. Do you remember that joke about the dog that swallowed the tape-measure and died?"

"Yes. It sounded rather silly!..."

"And it didn't get a laugh. The silliness of a thing doesn't matter if it makes you laugh. This is how they said it. The tall chap says to the little one, 'How's your dog, Joe?' and the little one answered, 'Oh, he died last week. He swallowed a tape-measure and died by inches!...'"

Hinde laughed. "Do people pay good money to listen to that sort of stuff?"

"You're a journalist," Cream replied, "and you ought to know they pay money to read worse than that!"

"So they do," Hinde admitted.

"When I heard those two duffers ruining that joke," Cream continued, "I felt as if I wanted to run on to the stage and tell 'em how to get it over to the audience. This is how they ought to have done it!"

He stood up and enacted the characters of the two back-chat comedians, and as John watched him and listened to him, he realised what a great actor the little man was.

"Say, Joe, what're you in mourning for?"

"I'm in mourning for my little dog!"

"Your little dog. Why, your little dog ain't dead, is it?"

"Yes, my little dog's dead!"

"Well, Joe, I'm sorry to hear your little dog's dead. What was the matter with your little dog?"

"My little dog died last week."

"Yes, your little dog died last week?..."

"He swallowed a tape-measure!..."

"Good heavens, your little dog swallowed a tape-measure?"

"Yes, my little dog swallowed a tape measure, and HE DIED BY INCHES!"

Cream sat down when he had finished giving his performance. "That's how they ought to have done it," he said.

"It makes me angry to see men ruining a good story. You see, Mac, you've got to lead up to things. Everything in this world has to be led up to. You can't rush bald-headed at anything. And you've got to get a climax. These back-chat chaps hadn't got a climax. The joke was over before the audience had time to realise it was a joke. See?"

"I see," said John.

A few minutes later, Cream went downstairs to his own room.

"That little man knows just how to get an effect," said Hinde. "The amazing thing about him is that he doesn't know that he can act and that his wife can't!..."

"Why do you call her his wife?" John replied.

"Out of civility," said Hinde. "I don't see that it matters much whether she is or not!"

"That's what Lizzie says."

"Lizzie is an intelligent woman. I hope you don't think I was rude to Lizzie just now?..."

"Oh, no," John answered insincerely.

"I wouldn't hurt Lizzie's feelings for the world," said Hinde. "I'm going to bed now, but you needn't hurry unless you want to. I'm tired, and I shall have a busy day to-morrow. I'll see if there's any work that would suit you on my paper. You ought to have some sort of a job besides scribbling masterpieces. I suppose you left a girl behind you in Ballyards?"

John's face flushed. "No," he replied.

"That's good," Hinde said. "You'll be able to get on with your work instead of wasting time writing letters to a girl. Good-night!"

"Good-night. Mr. Hinde!" said John, suddenly ceremonious.

"Not so much of the Mister. Call me Hinde. I think I'll follow Cream's example and call you Mac!"

"Very well, Hinde," said John.

"We'll go up to town in the morning together, if you like!"

"I would," said John.

VI

John's dreams that night were queerly complicated. Eleanor Moore flitted through a scene on a submarine in which a dog was dying by inches while a naval lieutenant made passionate love to an Irish girl called Kitty; and while Eleanor passed vaguely from side to side of the submarine, a gigantic piece of red tape came and enveloped her and enveloped John, too, when, unaccountably, he appeared and tried to save her. He felt himself being strangled by red tape, and he knew that Eleanor was being strangled, too. He felt that if only the dog would eat the red tape, both Eleanor and he would be delivered from it, but somehow the Irish girl called Kitty prevented the dog from eating it. And in the dream, he called pitifully to Eleanor, "She won't let us work up to a climax! She's preventing us from working up to a climax!..."