‘I say vot I mean,’ Darco responded. ‘It is a chelly. It is a very goot chelly—in’ places. You might like it if you took it in a sboon out of a storypook, or a folume of boedry; but a blay is a very different greation.’
Then he fell to a mortally technical criticism of Paul’s work—a practical stage-manager’s criticism—and enlightened his hearer’s mind on many things. He said, ‘I am Cheorge Dargo, ant now you know,’ a little oftener than was necessary, but he laid bare all the weaknesses of plot and execution—all the improbabilities which Paul supposed himself cunningly to have effaced or bidden, and he showed him how fatally he had disguised his budding scoundrel in a robe of goodness throughout the whole of the first act.
‘But it’s life!’ cried Paul. ‘That’s what happens in life. You meet a man who seems made of honesty; you trust him, and he picks your pocket.’
‘Aha!’ said Darco; ‘but there is always somepoty who knows the druth apout him, ant efery memper of your autience must represend that somepoty. Now, I’ll dell you. I vill make a sgeleton for you. We will pild your chelly into a gomedy, ant we will preathe into id the preath of life, and it shall valk apout.’
‘You’ll—you’ll work with me?’ Paul cried. ‘Hurrah!’
Darco rang a peal at the bell, and the landlady, probably thinking the house on fire, scurried madly to answer the call.
‘Half-bast elefen o’glock,’ growled Darco accusingly, ‘ant look at the preakfast-dable.’
‘But you told me, sir——’ began the gasping woman.
‘Now don’t sdant jattering there,’ said Darco, ‘I am koing to be busy. Glear avay!’
‘I came to clear away at nine, sir.’