“He seemed to like the performance. What are you grumbling about?”
“This,” snarled George, stubbing his finger at the middle of the column.
“Just read it again.”
“Particularly restful on the eyes were the delicate pastel greens of the background to the ballet sequence. Well?”
“They weren’t greens! I spent a lot of time getting that exact shade of blue! And what happens? Either some blasted engineer in the control room upsets the colour balance, or that idiot of a reviewer’s got a cock-eyed set. Hey, what colour did it look on our receiver?”
“Er — I can’t remember,” confessed Jean. “The Poppet started squealing about then and I had to go and find what was wrong with her.”
“Oh,” said George, relapsing into a gently simmering quiescence. Jean knew that another eruption could be expected at any moment. When it came, however, it was fairly mild.
“I’ve invented a new definition for TV,” he muttered gloomily. “I’ve decided it’s a device for hindering communication between artist and audience.”
“What do you want to do about it?” retorted Jean. “Go back to the live theatre?”
“And why not?” asked George. “That’s exactly what I have been thinking about. You know that letter I received from the New Athens people? They’ve written to me again. This time I’m going to answer.”