Frank Armstrong glared at the well-dressed, well-fed loungers in the entrance.
"Somehow, I think fellows like these must be all wrong in their taste," he said.
"Then would you like unpopularity? Would you be better pleased if the theatre was empty, and there was no advance booking?"
Frank Armstrong grinned.
"No: I should curse like mad," he said. "It happened to me once, and I had no use for it."
Then his surliness broke down.
"I don't mind telling you," he said. "The fact is that I sold my play inside out from Iceland to Peru and Madagascar, and I don't get a penny more or less whether it runs to Doomsday or only New Year's Day. I feel all these people are defrauding me."
"Oh, what a pity!" said Charles. "I am sorry. But they'll come flocking to your next play."
The thought that there were three more plays of his to be pouched by Craddock sealed Armstrong's good humour up again. It had put in a very inconspicuous appearance, and now popped back like a lizard into its hole. He shrugged his shoulders.
"There's the bell," he said, "if you want to hear the third act."