Jack Knebworth bit his lip, scratched his long chin, scowled, and then:
“All right,” he said gruffly. “Maybe you’ll come in handy, though I’ll have quite enough bother directing one amateur, and if you get into the pictures on this trip you’re going to be lucky!”
There was a man of the party, a tall young man whose hair was brushed back from his forehead, and was so tidy and well arranged that it seemed as if it had originally been stuck by glue and varnished over. A tall, somewhat good-looking boy, who had sat on Adele’s left throughout the journey and had not spoken once, he raised his eyebrows at the appearance of Michael, and, strolling across to the harassed Knebworth, his hands in his pockets, he asked with a hurt air:
“I say, Mr. Knebworth, who is this johnny?”
“Which johnny?” growled old Jack. “You mean Brixan? He’s an extra.”
“Oh, an extra, is he?” said the young man. “I say, it’s pretty desperately awful when extras hobnob with principals! And this Leamington girl—she’s simply going to mess up the pictures, she is, by Jove!”
“Is she, by Jove?” snarled Knebworth. “Now see here, Mr. Connolly, I ain’t so much in love with your work that I’m willing to admit in advance that even an extra is going to mess up this picture.”
“I’ve never played opposite to an extra in my life, dash it all!”
“Then you must have felt lonely,” grunted Jack, busy with his unpacking.
“Now, Mendoza is an artiste——” began the youthful leading man, and Jack Knebworth straightened his back.