“Eight or nine years,” said the baronet carelessly, swallowing the whisky that the ape had poured for him. “Now let’s go out and see the actors and actresses. She’s a nice girl, eh? You’re not forgetting you’re going to bring her to dinner, are you? What is your name?”
“Brixan,” said Michael. “Michael Brixan.”
Sir Gregory grunted something.
“I’ll remember that—Brixan. I ought to have told Bhag. He likes to know.”
“Would he have known me again, suppose you had?” asked Michael, smiling.
“Known you?” said the baronet contemptuously. “He will not only know you, but he’ll be able to trail you down. Notice him smelling his hand? He was filing you for reference, my boy. If I told him ‘Go along and take this message to Brixan,’ he’d find you.”
When they reached the lovely gardens at the back of the house, the first scene had been shot, and there was a smile on Jack Knebworth’s face which suggested that Adele’s misgivings had not been justified. And so it proved.
“That girl’s a peach,” Jack unbent to say. “A natural born actress, built for this scene—it’s almost too good to be true. What do you want?”
It was Mr. Reggie Connolly, and he had the obsession which is perpetual in every leading man. He felt that sufficient opportunities had not been offered to him.
“I say, Mr. Knebworth,” he said in a grieved tone, “I’m not getting much of the fat in this story! So far, there’s about thirty feet of me in this picture. I say, that’s not right, you know! If a johnny is being featured——”