Writhing. Ah, don’t—don’t——!
Lily.
Brushing the tears from her eyes. I was a pupil of Tedder’s for twelve months, and then he got me on at the Canterbury; and from the Canterbury I went to Gatti’s, and from Gatti’s to the Lane, for a few lines in the pantomime and an understudy—my first appearance in the West End— singing “Oh, the West End is the best end!”—and from there I went to the old Strand, and there Morrie Cooling spotted me, and that led to me being engaged at the Pandora, where I ate my heart out, doing next to nothing, for two whole years. Then came the production of The Duchess of Brixton, and it was in The Duchess—thanks to Vincent Bland—that I sang the “Mind the Paint” song. He believed in me, did Vincent; he saw I was fit for something more than just prancing about, and airing my ankles, in a gay frock. By Jupiter, how he fought for me; how he fought for me, up to the final rehearsal! And to this day, whenever I indulge in a prayer, you bet Vincent Bland has a paragraph all to himself in it! Checking herself and coming to Farncombe. Oh, but—I needn’t inflict quite so much of my biography on you, need I? He rises. Sorry. I merely wanted to tell you enough to show you—to show you——
Farncombe.
Close to her, gazing into her eyes. To show me what a—what a marvel you are!
Lily.
Pleased. Ha, ha! Oh, I’m not chucking mud at myself really. Why should I! Many a woman ’ud feel as vain as a peacock in my shoes. Fancy! From the shop in Gladwin Street to— with a gesture to this! And from Tedder’s stuffy room in the Westminster Bridge Road to the stage of the Pandora, as principal girl!
Farncombe.
Tenderly. Wonderful!
Lily.