“And who, pray,” said Selina, with her heavy eyebrows making semi-circles of indignant surprise, “is Mr. George Robey?”
I sat silent. I had just brought my niece back from a short but variegated stay in town. I knew, but I would not tell.
“Why, Selina, dear,” answered Patty, “you are the very image of him with your eyebrows rounded like that. He is always glaring at the audience that way.”
“Will you, Patty,” said Selina, now thoroughly roused, “be good enough to tell me who he is?”
“Well, he’s an actor, who makes the very faces your Bergson describes. Uncle took me to see him in a” (catching my warning eye)—“in a sort of historical play. He was Louis XV., at Versailles, you know.”
“H’m,” said Selina, “it’s rather a doubtful period; and the very best historical plays do make such a hash of history. Was it in blank verse? Blank verse will do much to mitigate the worst period.”
“N-no,” answered Patty, “I don’t think it was in blank verse. I didn’t notice; did you, Uncle?”
I tried to prevaricate. “Well, you never know about blank verse on the stage nowadays, nearly all the actors turn it into prose. Mr. Robey may have been speaking blank verse, as though it were prose. The best artists cannot escape the fashion of the moment, you know.”
“But what did he do?” insisted Selina, “What was the action of the play?”
Patty considered. “I don’t remember his doing anything, Selina, dear, but chuck the ladies of the Court under the chin. Oh, yes, and he made eyes at them affectionately.”