“I don’t know how it is, Mrs. Denmead,” he said one day, when they chanced to be alone for a few minutes, “I am not gaining ground here. These stage people are very hard to get on with.”
“But they are your fellow artists,” said Evereld lifting her clear eyes to his, “why do you call them ‘these stage people’ as though they were a different sort of race?”
“Well you know,” said the Honorable Bertie, “of course you know it’s not quite—not exactly—the same thing. Your husband is of a good family, I am quite aware of that, but many of the others, why, you know, they are just nobodies.”
Evereld’s mouth twitched as she thought how Macneillie would have taken off this characteristic little speech.
“But art knows nothing of rank,” she said gently. “Who cares about the parentage of Raphael, or Dante, or David Garrick, or Paganini?”
The earl’s son looked somewhat blank.
“That’s all very well theoretically,” he said. “But in practice it’s abominable. I believe there’s a conspiracy against me. They are jealous of me and don’t mean to let me have a fair chance.”
“Oh, Mr. Macneillie is so just and fair to all, that could never be,” said Evereld warmly.
“The manager is the worst of them,” said the Honorable Bertie, deep gloom settling on his brow. “I hate his way at rehearsal of making a fool of one before all the rest of the company.”
“But you can’t have a rehearsal all to yourself,” said Evereld laughing. “You should hear what they say of other managers at rehearsal, who swear and rave and storm at the actors.”