Mrs. Hathaway. It’s not the way—a little trust—
Anne. I dare not. Mrs. Hathaway goes out at the door by the fire.
Henslowe [in talk. He is a stout, good-humoured, elderly man, with bright eyes and a dancing step. He wears ear-rings, is dressed shabby-handsome, and is splashed with mud. A lute is slung at his shoulder].
Played? It shall be played. That’s why I’m here.
Anne [behind them]. Will!
Shakespeare [turning]. This is my wife.
Anne [curtseys. Then, half aside]. Who is the man? Where from? What is his name?
Henslowe [overhearing]. Proteus, Madonna! A poor son of the god.
Shakespeare laughs.
Henslowe. Why, yes and no! I’m from Spain at the moment—I have castles there; but my bed-sitting room (a green room, Madonna) is in Blackfriars. As to my means, for I see your eye on my travel stains, I have a bank account, also in Spain, a box-office, and the best of references. The world and his wife employ me, the Queen comes to see me, and all the men of genius run to be my servants. But as to who I am—O Madonna, who am I not? I’ve played every card in the pack, beginning as the least in the company, the mere unit, the innocent ace, running up my number with each change of hand to Jack, Queen, King, and so to myself again, the same mere One, but grown to my hopes. For Queen may blow kisses, King of Hearts command all hands at court, but Ace in his shirt-sleeves is manager and trumps them off the board at will. You may learn from this Ace; for I think, sir, you will end as he does, the master of your suit.